Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  “Thank you,” the woman finally said in a shaky, small voice. “My husband will be grateful.”

  “Where’s ‘e?” Lalaas asked.

  “Away chopping wood in the forests. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Let’s ge’ you ‘ome. Ye need to keep away from these people,” Amne said and they walked back to the woman’s house. She gratefully let them in and they sat in the living room while the woman changed into another dress. She would repair the torn one as best she could. She returned and explained she was a seamstress so replacing the dress wouldn’t be difficult. Her name was Keli and had lived in Bukrat all her life. She was like many of the townsfolk, living there for convenience and happy to have higher living standards than those out in the countryside, but having nothing to do with the slavery business. It was at times like this, once every four sevendays or so, when the auctions were held, that it was advisable not to stray on the streets too long. She had thought it was safe to do so just to go to the bakery, but she had been attacked en route quite by surprise.

  “Don’ the town leader do anythin’?” Lalaas asked.

  “No. He makes a lot of money from the slavers, so he’s happy to support them, and to ignore their excesses. We only have a sevenday to suffer, then they’re gone and we can get back to normal. I’d be careful about what you did,” she warned Lalaas, “if anyone finds out you killed those slaver guards you’ll be in big trouble.”

  “Ye’ll speak up won’ ye?” Amne said.

  “I’m sorry; I saw nothing, I know nothing. It’s not worth the trouble to get involved. If you’ve any sense you’ll say nothing too. I’m grateful for your help but I really can’t help you if you get into trouble. I’d lose my home and we’d be forced out of Bukrat – if we’re lucky! We may even end up on the auction block!”

  Amne squeezed Keli’s hand. “I unnerstan’. You look after yeself.”

  “Thank you. You are very pretty, you know?” Keli smiled, then looked up at Lalaas. “You’re a lucky man.”

  “Ah,” Lalaas nodded, “ah know.”

  They left and paused outside. Amne took Lalaas’ hand. “Ah’m sorry ‘bout bein’ cross at ye back there, bu’ I was so angry at wha’ they were doin’ and ye standing doin’ nothin’, and they had to be stopped.”

  “Ye’re righ’ and ah’m sorry, Amne. Sorry ye go’ struck, too. Does it ‘urt?”

  “Mmm, a bi’, ah,” she tongued the inside of her mouth. Her face was swelling and Lalaas gently stroked it. Amne smiled and pressed herself briefly against him. Lalaas sighed and closed his eyes, then took his hand away. “If only ye weren’t a princess,” he said softly.

  “Ah know, Lalaas – ah know. C’mon, le’s ge’ relaxed, we need it. Ah’ve never been t’ a tavern afore. Wha’s i’ like?”

  “Ah’ll show ye,” Lalaas grinned and took her hand and tugged her along the street back to the inn they were staying in. Best they got off the streets while the reaction to the two dead guards took place. They would by now have been found by their paymaster and it wouldn’t be wise to remain outside while the recriminations went on. Time to forget slavery. The inn was getting busy by the time they got back and the usual collection of patrons were there the world over, or so it seemed to Lalaas. Amne was hesitant; Lalaas could feel her apprehension, unsure of what to expect. He took hold of her hand firmly and guided her over to a corner table that had two chairs. The table had seen better days, probably a century or so ago by the look of it, and was stained with age and an uncountable amount of alcohol.

  Being in a corner had the advantage of being in the semi darkness and not having anyone able to sneak up from behind. They were also out of most of the patron’s eyesight. A few people looked at Amne as they passed, but then they resumed their conversation or drinking. A serving wench came up to them and asked what they would like to drink. Lalaas asked her what they had. The choice was ale, mead, wine or something called stevos. Lalaas hadn’t heard of it and decided it was best to stick with what he knew, and what Amne may be able to tolerate. So he ordered a jug of mead and a jug of water.

  “Not wine?” Amne asked in a low voice.

  “No, ah don’ know if it’s proper wine or low quality rubbish,” Lalaas said. “Won’ be wha’ ye’re used to.”

  Amne nodded and waited until the serving girl returned with a tray. Lalaas passed over a coin and the girl looked at it in surprise. “Tab?” Lalaas asked. The girl nodded, smiling widely, showing a few missing teeth, and walked off.

  Lalaas poured a measure of mead into the jugs and topped it up with water. “Best no’ to drink too much,” he said.

  “Ah,” Amne nodded and sipped gingerly. To her surprise the drink tasted pleasant; sweeter than she expected. She commented on that.

  “Honeyed, mead is,” Lalaas said, then drank a mouthful, swallowed, and nodded. “No’ bad.” The evening drew in and they sat quietly at the back, slowly savouring the watered mead. They heard shouts at one time outside and men went running past making noise, and the two looked at each other and remained quiet. But apart from that there was no disturbance.

  Eventually Amne needed the lavatory. The conveniences were out the back next to the stables, two open-faced sheds with buckets and a water pump close by. It was basic and Amne had put off going there until she could bear it no longer. She stood up and almost fell over. The room was spinning. “Uh, wha’s goin’ on?” she slurred.

  Lalaas took her by the arm and gently guided her through the room. Sniggers accompanied them as the patrons saw how drunk she was. A few lewd comments followed which Lalaas decided to ignore but Amne was prepared to challenge, but she was quickly ushered out of the tavern down the rear passageway to the back door. “They shoul’ have a piece o’ my mind,” she said loudly. She had forgotten to speak in the slang manner but she was so drunk it made little difference as she was slurring so badly. “I know, darling’,” Lalaas said soothingly, “bu’ they won’ listen.”

  “Yea, they’re iggorant,” Amne nodded fiercely and tried to concentrate on walking by herself but for some odd reason everything went to the left. Lalaas guided her to the shed and seated her. He turned his back and stood on guard, listening to the struggles of Amne as she tried to adjust herself. There was a fair deal of muttering but finally she got it right. Eventually she needed lifting up off the wooden seat and her clothing smoothed down. Amne grinned at him and slipped her arms around his neck. “You’re marvl’us,” she sighed and sagged against him. “Whoops.”

  Lalaas picked her up and carried her back into the tavern, then up the stairs to the bedrooms. “We goin’ to bed?” she asked, her eyes rolling.

  “Ah. You’re drunk, Amne. Time for sleep.”

  “I’m no’ drunk; you’re abductin’ me. Tha’s treason,” she said assertively, then hiccupped.

  “If your father saw me now, I suspect he’d agree,” Lalaas said in a soft voice. Amne giggled, then hiccupped again. They got to their room and Amne had to be put down while he got the key and unlocked the room.

  As he picked her up again she complained. “I was comfy there. Why you not le’ me sleep?”

  “Better sleeping place in here; nobody can fall over you,” Lalaas said, locking the door and putting Amne down on the bed. She wrapped her arms round his neck and pulled him close to her. “You stay with me; I feel comfy snuggled into you.”

  Lalaas couldn’t complain; she had firm hold of him and he nestled her head onto an arm and cuddled into her. Amne smiled and hiccupped again, then shut her eyes. “You’re ever so warm and lovely,” she said softly and sank into sleep.

  Lalaas looked at her, then smiled and settled down as best he could, on the edge of the bed, while the princess fell into a drunken slumber. If Astiras had been there, there was little doubt he would have gone mad. Lalaas hoped to the gods that nobody ever found out about this.

  The book went flying through the air and landed untidily against the wall. “I won’t read any more!” Argan shouted crossly. Mr Sen waddled ov
er to the discarded book anxiously and picked it up, smoothing the creased pages and fussing over it. The boy sat in a sulk and folded his arms, refusing to look at his tutor. “I’m tired!”

  “Young prince, you must not do such things to books,” Mr Sen said sadly, shutting it. Fortunately there hadn’t been too much damage done to it. “Books are to be treated gently; they contain knowledge and knowledge is very important.”

  “I don’t care!” Argan wailed. “I don’t like books. I want to play with my soldiers.”

  “I’m sorry, young prince, no reading, no playing.”

  “Don’t you tell me, Mr Sen!” Argan shouted. “I’m a prince! You have to do as I tell you!”

  “No, young prince, I do not,” Mr Sen stood there in front of him, looking at the red-faced boy sternly. “Not if you don’t behave like a prince.”

  “I’ll tell my mother and she’ll have you thrown out of the palace!”

  “Go ahead, young prince,” Mr Sen said equably. “And I’ll tell her how spoiled you’re behaving and what you’ve done to this book.”

  “I hate you!” Argan shouted and ran from the room. He ran along the corridor, tears of frustration in his eyes, and threw himself to the floor and beat the carpet with his fists. Two guards on duty looked at each other in surprise, then grinned. Tantrums. They had children of their own and were used to such outbursts. Time for mother to intervene, they thought.

  Mr Sen appeared in the doorway and shook his head sadly. “Go fetch the empress,” he said to the nearest guard. “Someone needs a good talking to.”

  “Sire,” the guard grinned and loped off towards the day chamber.

  Argan buried his face into the carpet and tried to pretend nothing else in the world existed. He was tired of learning. It was hard and Mr Sen had kept on correcting him, and Argan didn’t like getting things wrong. So he didn’t want to learn as then he wouldn’t make mistakes. Reading was so hard. Footsteps came closer and he put his hands over his head and tried to make himself invisible. It didn’t work. Hands picked him up and he smelt the familiar perfume his mother used. Then came her reassuring voice. “Now, Argan, what’s going on?”

  “Mr Sen is being nasty to me I don’t want to learn I’m tired of books I don’t want him teaching me anything anymore he won’t let me play with my soldiers I want to be in my bedroom…” then he descended into an almighty sob, burying his face into her shoulder.

  Isbel turned and looked at Mr Sen who spread his hands wide in helpless apology. “Tired, is he?”

  “So much so he’s throwing books, your majesty. He’s finding reading a little challenging.”

  “Hmm. We’ll have to put a stop to today’s lessons, I think.”

  Mr Sen looked disappointed. “Your majesty….” he began.

  “Mr Sen, I think a mother knows better for her child than a tutor, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, ma’am, forgive me,” Mr Sen bowed. A large chasm had opened up in front of him and the tutor had wisely backed away. “We’ll resume tomorrow morning.”

  “Something other than reading. Writing, I think.”

  Argan wailed into her shoulder. “I want to play with my soldiers!”

  “No, Argan, only good boys who know how to write and read can play with them. You will have to be able to spell them before you can play with them.” Isbel winked at Mr Sen who beamed and bowed to her wisdom.

  “Awwwwwwwww!” Argan’s wail could be heard halfway through the palace. He writhed in Isbel’s arms.

  “Argan, if you don’t stop this silly wriggling I may drop you, and that will hurt.”

  “But….” his muffled cry came.

  “But nothing, you silly boy. You’re beginning to sound like Istan. You want to sound like him?”

  “No! I’m not Istan!” Argan pulled his face away from his mother’s shoulder and looked outraged.

  “Well then stop making those silly noises like he does, then.”

  Argan pulled a sulky face but stopped crying. Isbel put him down. Mr Sen stood there, waiting. He wasn’t sure how this would end, and he hadn’t been dismissed yet from her presence.

  Isbel looked at her son. “Now, Argan. I want you to say sorry to Mr Sen. Princes do not behave like that.”

  “No,” Argan sulked and folded his arms.

  “No supper, then,” Isbel said and tuned away from him. She faced Mr Sen and smiled so that Argan couldn’t see.

  “Aww! Mother!” Argan said in despair. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled almost inaudibly.

  “I didn’t hear that,” Isbel said, turning round, “and I’m sure Mr Sen didn’t either. Well?”

  Argan looked down at the carpet, going red. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow Mr Sen. “I’m sorry,” he said louder, hating saying it.

  “That’s better. Mr Sen?” the empress turned to look at the tutor, an eyebrow raised.

  “Apology accepted, young prince. Tomorrow we shall see if you can write the names of your soldiers, and if you can, then you can play with them afterwards.”

  “You promise?” Argan’s tear-stained face looked up at him. Isbel almost swept him up into her arms, he looked so vulnerable at that moment. But she steeled herself and remained motionless.

  “I promise, in front of your mother too, so I cannot go back on my word.”

  Argan nodded, slightly mollified. “What’s for supper?” he asked brightly, keen to talk about something else.

  Isbel almost laughed. “Well,” she said, “we could have that cream and jam cake the cooks like making with a nice refreshing drink. How does that sound?”

  “Oh, yes!” Argan bounced up and down, his tears forgotten.

  “In that case, go tidy yourself up, and I’ll ask the cooks to make one now. It will take a quarter watch to make, so you’ve got plenty of time. Mr Sen, how does that supper sound to you?”

  “Ma’am, I’ve long gone past the stage of worrying about my weight,” Mr Sen patted his girth and chuckled. “It sounds too tempting to pass.”

  “I shall leave the eating to you and my two ravenous sons,” Isbel said. “I avoid such unhealthy food. I have my appearance to think of, you know.”

  “And a marvellous job you are doing too, if I may be so bold, ma’am.”

  “Go on with you; flattery will get you nowhere,” Isbel said with a smile.

  Mr Sen bowed and returned to his room, already thinking of supper, his mouth watering. Isbel smiled to herself and paused in front of a window and saw her own reflection, running her hands down her body. Yes, she did look good for her age, but it took a lot of willpower not to succumb to eating unhealthy food, especially when those around her feasted on it. After two children, it had taken a lot of work to get herself back to anything like the shape she had been in before. Ah well, onwards.

  She made her way back to the day room, but then she caught sight of Pepil almost running along the corridor, his eyes wide, his face showing shock. Isbel’s heart sank. It must be bad news, the way he was looking. Something was wrong. She caught her breath; Astiras? Amne? Jorqel? Something bad, she knew it. “What is it?” she called out as Pepil came close.

  “Your majesty,” Pepil said breathlessly; he wasn’t used to such exercise. “Some surprising news.”

  “What is it? Is it the emperor, or the prince or princess? Bad news?”

  “No, no, ma’am, nothing like that. It’s a visitor. We have our first embassy!”

  “What?” Isbel felt stunned, then elated. At last, recognition from abroad! “Who is it and where from?” she walked on towards the throne room.

  Pepil remained where he was. “Ma’am, perhaps a word of advice? Best to keep them waiting, don’t see them too soon. We can house them overnight and say we’ll see them in the morning. I’ll rearrange the council meeting.”

  “Yes, yes, of course; to see them now would not be wise. Tell me, Pepil, who are they? Venn? Mazag?”

  “No, ma’am; you won’t believe this. It’s the Tybar.”

  Isbel st
ared at the major domo in disbelief.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The bleating of the wool beasts and the lowing of the bovines filled the air. The soldiers watched in satisfaction as the animals were herded into the newly built pens and sheds to the rear of the fence that went a quarter of the way around distant Zofela. The forests for leagues around had been cut down and turned into fencing or housing, and a large ditch had added to the blockade. Beyond the city the river snaked, patrolled by groups of soldiers but not nearly as efficiently as the northern side. Now the army had taken care of the food situation by requisitioning animals from the farmsteads in the area. Astiras had surprised them all by insisting each animal was paid for, a change from the devastation he’d inflicted up to now, but his thinking was that now that only Zofela and the far south of the region remained out of his control it was time to bring the Bragalese populace into the imperial fold.

  Bandits remained a problem but the messengers were getting through and supplies were arriving from Kastan, Frasia and Makenia by road. The roads were in an appalling state and when the rains came it would test them to the full. Astiras was eager to get as much into the new camp as soon as possible.

  The emperor himself stood on top of the earthworks, leaning on the fence, staring across at Zofela. The distant towers mocked him, fluttering the rebel flags. He stared left and right, noting how far the ditch, fence and spiked barrier currently extended. At a few places they had built gateways but here there were guard posts and ladders so that nobody could quickly pass through. The negotiations had broken down, as Astiras knew they would. Elmar had expected some concession, having had his way in the recent past with the previous emperor who was more interested in money than the empire, but Astiras knew where his priorities lay. He had land here and wanted it back, and Elmar was in his way. Bragal was also the proof to show others he was a man of action, a man of strength, a man of his word. He’d said he would crush the rebellion and take Zofela, and by the gods, that was what he would do.