by Tony Roberts
They would have to get the tithe sorted out really fast, and that meant sending out officials to all the farms and homesteads throughout Lodria. Jorqel hadn’t the money to pay for clerks, so he would send his men out on patrol and get them to count heads, animals and areas of land. That way a tax could be levied fairly. What records there had been were of little use; they were hopelessly out of date and had been allowed to rot so that they were only half legible.
“Not an easy task, is it, lord?” a soft, mocking voice suddenly came close to Jorqel’s side. The prince shot out of his chair, grabbing for his sword. He saw a single figure, sat comfortably in the chair by the arrow slit that looked out over Slenna, a slim, shadowy man dressed in dark clothing. He seemed to be unarmed, and the shout for the guards he was about to make died in Jorqel’s throat. Instead, he slid the sword back and came round the table to face the man. “Who in the name of the gods are you? And how did you get in here without the guards noticing?”
“Whom I am, you should be able to guess,” the man said easily. “As to how I got in here, that is my job.”
Jorqel stared at him for a moment, then clicked his fingers. “Kiros Louk!”
Louk bowed his head. “I should kneel I know, but a man of my profession has no master except the one who pays him. We have no national loyalties.”
“A professional spy. But surely you are Kastanian!”
“Indeed, in fact a native of Turslenka, but these past few years has taught me that nobody deserves to be my emperor. I chose a different path.”
“I should have you arrested as a traitor, in that case,” Jorqel said calmly.
“Is that what you wish?”
Jorqel pondered for a moment. “Nnnnnnooooo. You could be a useful man to have around. In fact, I can only assume you’re still here because you think you and I can work together.”
Louk beamed, his even white teeth flashing in his suntanned face. Jorqel wondered if the man was of Talian descent; they often had such features. “Young prince, it has been said you’re more of a thinker than your father, and you’ve just proved that to me. Your father did contract me just after he seized power to make sure you had the best intelligence from within Slenna, and that contract expired the moment you took the gates. Now, I’m just an out of work agent, looking for my next contract.”
“So I have my father to thank indirectly for the information you gave me? I think he could have asked you to break the gates or the walls or even carried out other acts of destruction. That would have helped me better.”
Louk spread his hands wide apologetically. “I only follow the wishes of my paymaster; no mention was made of damaging gates or walls.”
“But you could have used your initiative.”
Louk shook his head. “I suffered through hunger as much as anyone in Slenna while you were besieging it. I could do little else other than survive and pass you information about the garrison. If you had asked me to do something else then I might have done so. You must understand a contract between someone like yourself and someone like me has to be specific, in order for me to assess the risk and request an appropriate fee.”
“And what fee would you judge is appropriate if I asked you to travel around Lodria and see if there are any people who wish to carry on the rebellion?”
Louk put a finger to his lips for a moment. “A year’s contract, would you say?”
“Sounds about right, Louk.”
“Then I ask for a fee of two hundred furims.”
Jorqel looked shocked. “Two hundred? For a nice soft journey around the province?”
Louk splayed his fingers. “I may have to infiltrate the homes of nobility. If rebellion is thought of, it will be amongst them, not the peasantry. It’s an annual fee, too. I must be able to live, to buy food and so on, so two hundred is a reasonable request.”
Jorqel drummed his fingers on the table top. “I’ll consider it. In the meantime, where are you to be found?”
“I don’t usually tell anyone that, lord,” Louk smiled. “I have my professional reputation to uphold. I shall return at the end of the festivities. If you do not have the money then I shall depart and look for another who may hire my services.”
The prince grunted. “I really should have you thrown into jail. I don’t know if I can trust you.”
The spy spread his hands wide. “You may, but where in Slenna can you find a place that can hold me? There are no proper holding facilities, unless you count the stocks. And I can assure you, if you leave me in those overnight, by morning I shall be long gone.”
“Get out, you rogue,” Jorqel snapped. I will not see you again until after the celebrations. If I do see you around this place before then, I will use the stocks on you!”
Louk got to his feet, bowed mockingly, and then went over to the open window and climbed through the narrow gap. Jorqel gasped, for the drop outside was thirty feet at least, a killing drop. He swiftly made his way to it and peered out. The dark made seeing difficult but he could see nobody, either looking down, or after twisting his head, up. Where had Louk gone? Had he sprouted wings? The prince’s mind rejected such things, for surely nobody could do that!
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The atmosphere in the throne room was charged with a multitude of emotions that morning. Empress Isbel sat nervously on the throne specially made for her, the one to the left of the emperor’s. Alongside stood her advisors and courtiers, and scribes stood to one side ready to record the events. The room before her was full to bursting point, with only the red carpeted central aisle free. Here, standing every twenty paces or so, were members of the palace guard, decked out in their finest ceremonial armour and all holding newly polished volgars, their tips sharpened.
Isbel glanced left and right. The licking of lips and sweating of brows betrayed the tension all of them felt. For eleven years the name Tybar had stood for terror and destruction. Eleven years of continual disasters and the loss of province after province, bringing the Tybar Horde ever closer with every defeat. Refugees had come east, bringing with them tales of atrocities at the hand of the inhuman Tybar, of burning temples, raping of women, slaughtering of men. Children had been taken away, their futures unknown. Nobody had ever seen the lost generation again.
And now one of these feared people was here, in the palace of Kastan. No wonder people had come to the palace in curiosity. Vosgaris had informed the empress that very morning that crowds were gathering in the square outside, full of people wanting to see their first Tybar.
For a decade now mothers had send naughty children to bed telling them that if they didn’t behave, then ‘the nasty Tybar will come to get you’. It had resulted in a whole generation of Kastanian children growing up in fear of the mysterious pitiless people on their western border.
For her part, there was this churning in her stomach. She didn’t want to speak to this man, this diplomat who had spent the night in one of the palace chambers, guarded by two soldiers. The major domo, Pepil, stood by the door, his staff of office in his hand, waiting to announce the arrival of the man. The Tybar was at that moment waiting in the next chamber, waiting to be permitted entrance. Isbel fought to bring her breathing under control. She had to project calm, control, authority. She felt anything but. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she nodded across the room to Pepil who turned and opened the door and spoke briefly through the slight opening. Then the doors opened and Pepil rapped the floor loudly and spoke clear to all. “I present to your highness the honourable Kijimur, ambassador of the High Chief of the United Tribes of Tybar.”
Kijimur. So that was his name. Isbel sat still, fighting the urge to peer forward. A lone figure came slowly down the carpet, ignoring the wide eyes that followed him, oblivious, so it appeared, to the slight edging away of the crowd where he passed. Kijimur was slim, lithe, dressed in a long single coat of dull yellow with some sort of motifs embroidered upon them, and upon his head sat a cloth hat with a white feather stuck in the front. The man’s face was dark
and swarthy, and a slim dark moustache adorned his upper lip. A narrow jutting nose sat above the moustache, and deep black eyes peered out from under a wide forehead.
His feet were covered in a pair of what looked like wormspun slippers, so that his footsteps were silent, except for a slight swishing sound, and she could hear that because there was no other sound at all in the throne room. Kijimur’s eyes were fixed on Isbel and his features became clearer to her as he neared. She felt a rising sense of revulsion but suppressed it. He was a guest.
He had been prepped on the correct procedure by Pepil, and he now halted at the bottom of the steps that led up to the dais upon which stood the thrones, and bowed low. “I am honoured to be in your presence, your highness,” he said with a strongly accented deep masculine voice. He stood and stepped back a pace, as protocol demanded. The two guards stood at the bottom of the steps nervously fingered the shafts of their volgars. Their faces reflected the hostility and apprehension they felt, but Kijimur ignored them. They were unimportant.
“You are welcome, Kijimur of the United Tribes. I trust you have been well looked after?” Isbel was pleased her voice was even and strong, with no trace of a tremor in it.
Kijimur smiled, a row of white teeth flashing in his dark face. “Very well, thank you. I have a message of friendship from my master, the Magnificent Klijastlan. He wishes for peace and a future of trade between our nations.”
A buzz of voices broke out from the people in the room. Isbel put a thoughtful hand to her chin. “Peace? I am surprised, Kijimur. On what terms?”
“On payment of a tribute from the Kastanian Empire. It is here in this document,” and he produced a rolled up scroll, sealed with red wax. It had been inspected by Pepil earlier that morning, and had been handed back unopened.
Isbel waggled her fingers at one of the courtiers who walked down the steps, took it from Kijimur and brought it to Isbel. Vosgaris edged a step closer to her right. He was there as her bodyguard. It seemed fine, since both Kijimur and the courtier had handled it with their bare hands and neither were showing signs of poison.
Isbel noted the insignia of a cup on the seal. It had been the governor of Imakum’s seal before that city had fallen to the Tybar a mere six years ago. She glanced up at Kijimur who seemed indifferent to it. Perhaps he knew, maybe he didn’t. She broke the seal and read the contents, written in Kastanian. Clearly there was someone in Imakum who was a survivor of the former administration working for the Tybar now. “An annual payment of a thousand furims? For five years?”
“Renewable every five years, ma’am,” Kijimur smiled. “The amount can be negotiated at that time. Perhaps down. Perhaps up.”
Vosgaris muttered under his breath, something disparaging, but too quiet for Isbel to hear properly. Kijimur didn’t hear it and he may not have understood the words in any case. They probably weren’t the ones taught at language school.
“We shall have to ponder on these terms, Kijimur. Should this treaty not be signed, what do you understand your master would do?”
“My belief, ma’am, is that my master would send raiders across the border to burn and pillage your farmlands, and then assemble a mighty army to sweep your forces into the sea and claim Slenna and Niake as his.” He bowed low once more.
There was an angry muttering that rolled across the throne room. Isbel held up her hand for silence. “Thank you for your words, Kijimur. We desire peace, and shall give this treaty very serious consideration. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable in your chambers. If you desire anything, food, drink, entertainment, please ask and we shall do what we can to accommodate you.”
“Your highness is too kind,” Kijimur bowed low and backed away, then turned and walked back to the door where Pepil awaited.
As the door closed behind him voices broke out in a wave of outrage and indignation. “A thousand furims a year!” Vosgaris almost shrieked. He looked at Frendicus who was shaking his head vehemently.
Isbel stood up and waved at the assembled people. “Please, please! You heard him. The Tybar wish for peace. We must seriously consider this. We will give our reply in due course. Now please, we must adjourn and examine this document. Ladies, gentlemen.”
The crowd bowed and waited until Isbel had gone out by the door behind her, then began discussing between themselves in little groups as to what they’d seen and heard.
____
Isbel hurried along the corridor behind the throne room, escorted by Vosgaris and two particularly large guardsmen, then through a door that was opened for her and closed behind the group, and along yet another long marbled passage to the council chamber. Two more guards were already standing by the entrance and their volgars were smartly pulled aside to allow the empress and her entourage ingress.
The chamber was already occupied by a number of people, and they stood as Isbel walked to her seat. Vosgaris stood behind her, sword in his hands, tip planted on the ground, and the two burly guardsmen came to a halt on either side of her, scowling mightily. It was an intimidating sight, as it was indeed meant to be, and the men of the council waited deferentially until she sat.
“Please, seat yourselves,” she said, the Tybar scroll in her hand. She waited until all had sat, then looked along the two rows of faces. Here were the top advisors of the empire; military, religious, diplomatic, social, financial. Many she had seen before but two in particular were relatively new to this chamber, even though they were well advanced in years. Both were scarred and grey haired, and had the look of soldiers.
“Gentlemen,” Isbel began, “you may not know the two new members here, but they are here on my express wishes. May I introduce Panat Branas and Alvan Evcar, two former generals in the service of the empire. They are of noble houses that have served Kastania in the past with distinction, and it is my hope that their houses will once again in the future.”
The others turned their attention to the two men. Panat was the larger of the two men and sported a greying beard while Alvan was clean shaven and had a strong cast to his features, a piercing look and a beak of a nose. Not a man to trifle with.
“Their names are known,” Frendicus said, nodding. “I believe you served in the war with the Tybar?”
“Aye,” Panat Branas growled, his voice emanating from his boots. There was a bitter edge to his voice. “A war in which the army was unprepared to fight, and was blamed for the defeats.”
Isbel rapped her knuckles on the table top. “Blame is not the reason why you two distinguished men are here today. It is unfortunate that our predecessors saw fit to dismiss you and from this moment you are to have your full pension rights restored. Frendicus, see to it.”
“Uh, yes, of course, your highness,” Frendicus stammered, caught by surprise.
Panat and Alvan both looked at Isbel in surprise, then both bowed. “Your highness is generous, and wise,” Alvan intoned, his speech slow and deliberate.
Isbel bowed in return. “I have need of your advice, and your counsel to the assembled people here. As you know, a Tybar diplomat is present here and we have just learned that his master proposes a peace treaty, at a cost. I doubt we can afford to pay, and we have been threatened with invasion if we do not comply. Comments?”
Panat and Alvan exchanged long looks. It was Panat who cleared his throat. “I have been out of circulation for a few years now, but the memories of the Tybar Horde swarming over my men still haunts me to this day. What, may I ask, is stopping them from invading us anyway? Why do they need a peace treaty?”
“That is what I am puzzling over, Panat,” Isbel said. She looked at Alvan. “You served as commander of the Balq Sea Defence at Taboz. You lasted longer than anyone else on the frontier. How did you hold out for so long?”
Alvan snorted. “We stayed where we were. The Tybar try to lure you into ambushes and traps, then chop your units up into pieces and massacre them one by one, using arrows until you’re too weak to fight back, then they go in and finish you off with swords. We refuse
d to abandon our defences and so they couldn’t beat us. It was only when we were recalled to Kastan and the locals revolted in fury that the empire lost Taboz. We could have held out there for years, supplied by the sea. It was a stupid decision.”
“Agreed,” Isbel said, “sadly the empire was run by those who were not strategists and saw an army presence in Taboz as an unnecessary expense. I regret you were held accountable for the revolt. That has now been corrected in the imperial histories.”
“Your highness is very kind,” Alvan smiled.
“And my record of service, may I ask?” Panat looked at Isbel, his eyes almost pleading. His family name had been shamed by his dismissal seven years previously.
“Also corrected. The disaster at Kezara was not down to any action by yourself, Panat, and I have been informed that you in fact saved the lives of many imperial soldiers. Without your prompt action that day we would not have had an army to fall back to defend Imakum. This has now been recorded in our archives.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. You have my gratitude, as well as that of my family.”
“Now, to today’s problem. The Tybar wish for peace. Why? I’d like your comments.”
“To see if we can be turned into serfs?” Frendicus opined. The others frowned at him, so he splayed his hands out across the table in front of him. “Once we pay for our security, we’re no longer masters of our own destiny. We are the lackeys of the Tybar, and with our money they can enrich themselves, gaining power and prestige, and can then suck us dry before finishing us off at their leisure. It buys them time to prepare for the day they wish to advance their territories at our expense.”
