Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  “No, Frendicus,” one of the council members, a merchant guildmaster by the name of Elethro Ziban, shook his head. “They probably wish to see if we still have money so that they can plunder us to their heart’s content. An attack will come no matter what, but they want to see if it’s worth their while financially. I hear that the slave market further west has a glut, thanks to their seizure of our cities, and they need more money for hiring mercenaries. There are frequent raids by bandits along the roads of their newly conquered lands and they need to patrol them.”

  “The Tybar have never asked for a treaty before,” Panat said. “Their declared intention was to destroy our empire, at least that’s what their original warlord, Julsek, said after the disaster at Zerika ten years ago.”

  “Tell me, Panat,” Isbel said softly, “up to now nobody has ever spoken to my family of that day, and our records don’t fully show what did happen. It would look as if they have been erased or never written about in the first place.”

  Panat Branas sighed, looked at Alvan who nodded curtly, then leaned forward, his arms resting on the table. “Ma’am, things were very wrong before that accursed battle. Competent generals had been replaced by idiots, pay was in arrears, units reduced in numbers. The army was in tatters after years of neglect. We all thought there was no danger from the west and that the troubles in the east were the only problem facing the empire. Then word came that a new threat was coming our way, and the emperor at that time, poor Sumorius Ronis, was persuaded by his council to personally lead the campaign, so he left Kastan for what he thought was a glorious war. Little did we know that already behind the scenes the Fokis and Duras families had agreed to use the invasion as the excuse to seize power, and that their family members, both of whom had generals with the emperor, were under orders to betray him – and the army – to the Tybar.”

  There was a hushed, shocked silence in the chamber following Panat’s words. The aged general put his head in his hands, then looked up again. “I was put in command of the vanguard; the traitor Fokis had the centre and his fellow conspirator Duras the rearguard. It was a hot summer’s day when the Tybar army came into sight, all on equines, all carrying those damned bows. My vanguard, all elite infantrymen, were sent forward to drive them back, which was of course what both the Tybar and the traitors wanted.”

  Panat reached across for a glass and poured water into it, his hands slightly trembling. After taking a draught, he cleared his throat and continued. “The dust kicked up in those mountains by the Tybar’s beasts obscured the sun. We could not see that we were now on our own. We could not see that the emperor and his bodyguard had been set upon by the centre under Fokis, and that Fokis himself would slay the emperor. We could not see the rearguard walking away from the battle to leave my vanguard alone to face the entire Tybar army.” Panat’s bitterness came out fully now, unchecked. “Those arrows turned the sky black. My men were cut down in swathes. When we realised we were on our own we fell back, in an ever shrinking circle, while they rode round us without harm. We couldn’t get at them, we had no archer support. We had been betrayed!”

  “And then what happened?” Isbel asked softly.

  “The darkness came and saved what was left of our number. I made my way back to the camp to find the emperor dead and most of his bodyguard the same, surrounded by imperial soldiers. It had been clear what had happened. So we took the emperor’s body with us and made our way to Kezara but now with only half of my men. The governor there had been given orders to arrest me for the murder of the emperor by the Fokis and Duras traitors and they had fled to Kastan to arrange the coronation of their own man.”

  “And did he arrest you?”

  “No, ma’am, he was a good man and distrusted them, and once he heard from my men what had happened put himself and Kezara at my disposal.”

  “So that was what really happened at Zerika.” Isbel felt sick, sick at how the ambitions of two greedy families had caused so much damage.

  The assembled group were silent for a moment, absorbing the enormity of the event. Then, one of the councillors, the white-haired Pandris, who had been present at the inaugural council meeting of Astiras, stirred. “This must be recorded; we have up to now been given a version of events that is vastly different from what we’ve heard today!”

  “Yes,” another nodded, “and we should punish those responsible!”

  Isbel shook her head. “The time for recriminations is not now. Besides, those who were responsible are dead. We know the Fokis and Duras families fell out and resorted to fighting between themselves shortly afterwards, and all the generals who conspired to betray the empire, as well as those who probably gave the orders, are long gone. But their deeds are not. We must work hard together to repair the damage. So, gentlemen, please, I need your wise counsel now. What of this peace offer?”

  “I distrust any peace offer from the Tybar,” Panat spat.

  “May I ask, why are they offering peace when they could just ride in and attack?” Alvan queried. “No peace offer has ever been made by them, as far as everyone I know is concerned. So are they truly in a position to attack, or are there problems behind the border we do not know about?”

  Isbel looked at Valson, the diplomat amongst them. “Have you heard of anything at all?”

  “No, ma’am, but it is well known that any fresh conquest would need time to consolidate. How strong were the Tybar when they first invaded? Did they have the men to garrison all the major towns and cities, and still have an effective army to attack further afield?” He looked at the assembled men around him. “They must be having difficulties, particularly when they are bringing in a new regime, religion and way of life. The populace is Kastanian, or it is mostly, and there surely are pockets of resistance.”

  “I think you could be right,” Panat nodded, something close to vindictive pleasure in his face. “They may be bluffing; they may not have the capacity to wage war on us.”

  Isbel drummed her fingers on the table top. “So would you call their bluff? Reject the treaty outright?”

  There were a few nods, then others joined in too, seeing that some had dared to do so.

  Isbel sighed and rose up, and the rest of the group did likewise. “Thank you, each and every one of you. I shall ponder on the matter further, and then make a decision.” She walked out of the chamber, closely followed by Vosgaris and the two burly guards, and then the meeting broke up into small groups, discussing animatedly the peace treaty and the Tybar.

  Isbel went to her day room, her head full of doubts. The responsibility of signing a treaty weighed heavily on her and she sat at her desk, thinking. Then she made a decision and dipped a quill in her ink pot and began composing a letter to her husband. He would have to know, and maybe a reply could be received within a few sevendays. In the meantime she would have to stall and play for time.

  She had almost finished when she was startled by a high-pitched scream outside in the corridor which was followed by the unmistakable sound of a child crying. The letter to Astiras was forgotten and she dashed out into the corridor to see both her sons and a flustered Rousa. Rousa was cradling a sobbing Istan while Argan was standing a little distance away, his face bright red, and the biggest sulk of all time on his face.

  “Rousa! What’s going on?” Isbel demanded.

  “Oh! Your highness... I’m so sorry!”

  “Rousa – please tell me what’s going on?”

  The elderly maid turned an inconsolable Istan around and across his face was the mark of a blow. His left cheek was red – as red as Argan’s face. The three year old Istan ran to his mother sobbing and threw himself into her arms.

  Isbel spent a few moments trying to calm her youngest son down, then looked at Rousa. “Well?”

  Rousa glanced at Argan who pointedly looked away and down at his feet. “This young man here hit Istan.”

  “Argan!” Isbel snapped. “Why did you do that? He’s a baby!”

  “He started it,” Argan m
umbled, looking at his feet, his face even redder.

  “I beg your pardon? Speak up and look at me when I’m addressing you!” Isbel was angry.

  Argan hung his head even lower and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Argan – I’m talking to you.”

  The six year old shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Why couldn’t he disappear like magic and nobody could then see him? He knew he had done a bad thing but Istan hadn’t stopped aggravating him when he had told him to stop.

  “Very well,” his mother said, “off to your room now. You will not be allowed out until I say so.”

  “It’s not fair!” he burst out, his voice carrying in its high-pitched manner down the passage to the far end. Two guards standing by the closed double doors there looked up in surprise. “He started it! Why do I always get the blame? I hate him!”

  “Enough!” Isbel demanded, her eyes flashing in anger. “You, young man, have gone too far! I’m writing to your father; do you want me to tell him just how badly behaved you’ve become?”

  Argan stood glumly before her, shaking his head, tears welling up.

  Isbel composed herself, resisting the urge to hug the boy. He had to understand what he’d done was wrong, and to comfort him now would undermine that lesson. The role of a parent often was the hardest and most misunderstood of all. “Then go to your room now. Vosgaris will go with you and make sure you’re safely there, and he’ll lock the door so you can’t get out.”

  “What if I want to wee?” the boy asked, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. The feeling of being unjustly punished wasn’t being helped by Istan smirking from under his mother’s hand as it stroked his face. But one good thing about Istan’s sneaky gloating; it stopped the tears. Now he felt rage. He bunched his fists, and swung about, not wanting to see his little brother’s face.

  “Well then go now,” Isbel said reasonably. “Vosgaris! Take Argan to his room.”

  The palace guard captain came forward, suppressing a grin. He’d seen enough to know it was a healthy bit of sibling falling out. “Yes, ma’am. Come on, young Prince, let’s go.”

  Argan shuffled off in a huff, stamping along the corridor in a very bad temper indeed. Isbel sighed and examined Istan’s face again. The child had rearranged his face to look extremely sad and pitiful by this time, so all traces of his triumph were gone. “Now are you alright?”

  Istan nodded. “He hit me, mummy!”

  “Why did he do that?” Isbel asked.

  “I don’t know – I didn’t do anything!”

  “It’s alright, Istan, the pain will go away; it’ll be nothing.”

  Istan snuggled into his mother’s breast, enjoying the feel and smell of her. He didn’t want to be with Argan. He didn’t like him being his brother. He wanted his mother all to himself.

  Rousa came forward. “Argan was provoked, your highness, but his reaction was a shock to me. I do apologise; I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Provoked?”

  “I’ll speak to you about it later, ma’am.”

  Isbel nodded, passing a protesting child to the nurse. “You go with Rousa now; Argan is in his room and won’t be allowed out for a while.”

  “I don’t want him out ever!”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Istan,” his mother said, standing up, “he has to come out to eat and to go to lessons.”

  Sulking, Istan reluctantly allowed Rousa to take him from his mother. Isbel stood and waited until the nurse turned a corner before returning to her letter. The last thing she needed now was a squabble between her children. She would have to have a word with Rousa – and Argan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The whispered discussion by the slave pen had been brief, but both Theros and the two he had horrified had made their feelings known and now Amne and Lalaas had withdrawn from the slave pens to talk the matter over. Theros remained by the bars, peering out at them, his presence a dark cloud in their minds. The slave owner hadn’t seen any of the exchange as he had been busy with another potential buyer, pointing out those slaves he regarded as being the best of his current lot.

  “We’ve got to buy him, Lalaas,” Amne insisted, making sure nobody was in earshot. Her face reflected the desperation she felt. “Nobody deserves to be in that position! Not even Theros!”

  Lalaas looked reluctant. The memories of the courtier’s treachery and unsettling behaviour on the journey through Bragal were still too fresh in his mind. “How do we know he won’t give us away in any case, my lady?”

  “Trust me, Lalaas,” Amne insisted, her face inches from him. “You have enough coin to set him free?”

  “I should think so,” Lalaas patted the pouch hanging from his belt. “I can’t see him fetching much of a price.”

  Amne looked at him sharply for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. “Then we will buy him back. Tell him.”

  Lalaas sighed deeply and made his way slowly over to the cage. Theros’s white, wide face stared back at him, his eyes pleading. Lalaas leaned forward. “Listen, you. The Princess will set you free, but you must keep your mouth shut. One word and we leave Bukrat and leave you here to be bought by whoever will pay for you.”

  Theros nodded eagerly. “Thank you! Thank you!”

  Lalaas snorted. “Don’t thank me, Theros. Thank the Princess. Oh, and when we buy you, keep on behaving like a slave. If you don’t I’ll beat you, and everyone will expect to see that! Remember.” He stood up fully and walked across to the slaver who had finished showing the other people a cage full of younger slaves.

  “Yes, good sir? You have seen one you would like?”

  “Ah,” Lalaas slipped into the rustic accent of the country people once more. “’Un over there in tha’ cage. ‘Un lookin’ a’ us now, like.”

  The slaver saw who Lalaas was pointing at and frowned. The slave was unremarkable but had been dressed in fine clothes. If memory served, he’d been sold to him by local Bragalese bandits. There was something in their manner that said this slave was something more than the usual local unfortunate. “I’ll put a reserve on him if you’ll pay and if nobody comes up with a better offer he’s yours.”

  “An’ wha’s the price?”

  “Twenty furims. Ten is the reserve, the minimum price, and the other ten is for your maximum bid. If nobody else bids, you get the other ten back. After twenty, and there’s still someone else in for it, then you can carry on bidding or give up. Up to you.”

  Lalaas couldn’t see what else he could do, so he paid the money over. The slaver saw the other coins in the pouch and smiled to himself. Yes, a nice little profit to be made here, I think. Easy to part these dumb country folk from their coins. He passed Lalaas a note and told him to keep it for the morrow, the day of the auction. “See you then! Good bidding!”

  Lalaas moved off and returned to Amne and told her of the deal. As Amne smiled and clasped her hands together, Lalaas saw out of the corner of his eye the slaver watching them, a curious look on his face. Lalaas took Amne by the arm. “C’mon, dear, time we was off, like. Go’a prepare f’th’auction tamarra.”

  Amne allowed herself to be led away. They turned the corner and Lalaas let her go and peered back round the corner. The slaver was talking earnestly to another man, a short, stout man with a receding hairstyle. “Wha’s up?” Amne asked in a low voice.

  “Nafin’,” Lalaas grinned and moved away from the corner. “Jus’ wond’rin ‘bout th’auction.”

  Amne looked unconvinced but Lalaas winked at her and led her back to the inn.

  The following day was a cloudy and drizzly day. The ground was wet and the wind sent in gusts that blew the light rain against walls, doors and townsfolk and visitors alike. Both Lalaas and Amne were amongst the hundreds of people crammed into the town square, waiting for the slave auction. At one end of the square a platform had been erected and the bidding was made there. A slave or group of slaves would be brought up and exhibited, and the bidding would then start.

  Some
times the bidding would be brisk, but on other occasions it would be slow. The auctioneer, a burly, dark complexioned man with bushy curly hair and hands like a blacksmith’s, took Lalaas’s note and told him when the slave he was interested in was due to be put up on the block. As the time came close, and the number that preceded Theros’s was sold, Lalaas nudged Amne. “Next ‘un.”

  The two tensed, and the auctioneer cleared his throat. “Now, next lot. One middle-aged slave, standard work type, no trace of infirmity or ailment. Healthy. Not particularly big or strong. Possible indoor slave or menial tasker.” Theros was dragged to the front and made to kneel, as had all the other slaves. The auctioneer looked round. “What am I bid for this slave, then?”

  There were no shouts or raising of hands, and Lalaas felt a wave of relief go through him. He locked eyes with Theros who was staring at him intently. The diplomat had searched the crowd and spotted Lalaas and Amne within moments. There weren’t too many women at the auction.

  “Ten,” a voice came from the far right hand side and Theros swung his head to see who it was, and got a slap around the head from the auctioneer. Slaves must not move.

  Lalaas, however, could and he picked out the man with the raised arm. It was the man with the receding hair the slaver had been talking to. The Kastanian scout sighed and nodded in understanding. Amne, too short to see over the sea of heads, stood on tiptoes but still couldn’t see. “Who’sit?” she asked.

  “Sum man ov’r far side.”

  Lalaas raised his hand. “Fifteen.”

  Eyes close by switched to him. The auctioneer pointed his whip at Lalaas. “Fifteen, to the man close to the front here.”

  “Twenty,” the man on the far side said faintly but distinctly.

  “Twenty-five,” Lalaas said laconically.

  “Thirty,” the other said quickly, a little too quickly, so Lalaas thought. Smiling, Lalaas shook his head and turned away. “C’mon, darlin’, let’s go.”

  “Bu’-“ Amne protested, “we go’a buy ‘im!”