Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  “And they are how many?”

  “Oh, Evas, read it! Too many to venture out with your garrison on a search and destroy mission. You need Prince Jorqel’s help. Get him to march up with his regulars. They’ll put this man to the sword soon enough!”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Evas said, reaching for the sealed roll. He broke the seal and opened the parchments up, pinning the ends down with suitable paperweights. He read the first two sheets and looked up. “Disaffected former soldiers; household guards of the Fokis family; bandits; brigands. Tybar irregulars?”

  “They’re filtering across the frontier, Evas. It seems the Tybar tribal leaders are having problems controlling the wilder elements of their tribes. It’s inevitable, I suppose. The tribes were united as long as they had a strong warlord to lead them against who they saw as the infidel. Once they settled down and started administering cities and towns and extending laws to their subjects, some revolted and quit. All they want to do is to fight, and Lombert Soul is offering them exactly what they want, and for gold.”

  Evas put his hands to his temples. This was worse than he thought possible. “So we’re at the mercy of Tybar tribesmen?”

  “Unless you get Prince Jorqel to come down from Lodria. Your call.”

  Evas shook his head slowly. “It seems you may be right. I’m in your debt – yet again,” he added bitterly.

  Demtro pondered on that, then slowly leaned forward. “In which case you can repay me straight away.”

  “Oh?” Evas didn’t like the sound of that.

  Demtro jabbed a finger onto the table top. “There’s an inn called the Black Rodent close to the Aconian Gate.”

  “I’m aware of it, a den of filth.”

  “That’s so. I want you to burn the place down.”

  “What! Demtro, have you gone out of your mind?”

  “It’s a den of thieves and filth. Undesirables gather there. I wouldn’t be surprised if agents of Lombert Soul lived or worked there. You need to flush them out.”

  Evas sat straight in his chair, staring in shock at Demtro. “You’re asking me to burn down one of the taverns in this city on an impression that it’s a haunt of anti-Koros agents and sympathisers? I need more proof!”

  “If you don’t wish to reward my services to you then that’s your affair,” Demtro said harshly. “But remember who has the ear of the empress. Your position here is far from secure, especially with that insufferable kivok Burnas attacking you almost every prayer-day. One day somebody’s going to take what he says to heart and murder you. You need people like me to identify potential troublemakers so you can stop the problem before it starts. I’ve told you the Black Rodent is a den of anti-Koros feelings. How often have I been wrong? You rely on me too much to be able to do away with my services, Extonos. Without me you’d be nothing.” Demtro folded his arms across his chest. “So alienate me and you cut off your right arm. Who have you got to support you here, out on a limb away from Kastan? Your feckless morons you employ here? They couldn’t find their own arseholes if you asked them to. I can be your best ears and eyes, but on the other hand I can be your worst enemy. One sevenday it would take to have you removed.”

  Evas sat immobile, his face turning red. The worst part was that Demtro was right. He’d spent years in the service of the empire in the city, making it his own personal domain. He’d smoothly gone along with each successive emperor and administration so that he’d remain where he was, in charge of Niake. He’d been pleased when his old comrade in arms Astiras Koros had become emperor as he thought this would give him extra protection and immunity, but it had become clear recently that the Koros expected more of him and wanted him to take more responsibility for the region. There had been the hint of dissatisfaction with the ongoing issue with the priests in Niake, and they had also wished him to seek out and destroy Lombert Soul sooner rather than later.

  He needed people like Demtro to send messages of praise about him to Kastan, not complaints. “Very well,” he said heavily, “I shall arrange for the tavern to be destroyed. I won’t countenance the deliberate killing of anyone within its walls, however. I hope you understand.”

  Demtro nodded. “I shall leave the details and method down to you. Shall we say in three nights’ time? I’ll be watching close by.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Evas said tonelessly as Demtro got up and made his way towards the door.

  Demtro paused and turned just as he got to the door. “Arrest the men who flee the premises. You may find some interesting people. About time you lifted a corner or two of the dirtier quarters of Niake; you’ve allowed them to fester for too long. This place is an oil-soaked rag waiting to burst into flame. They’ll seek your head, you know? Stamp these anarchists out; they’re a real pain in the arse.”

  Evas was left brooding into space, thinking over what Demtro had said.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The Mazag army had fully moved into or around Bukrat. The town had been transformed by the arrival of the military. The slavers had been put to death and their corpses still hung from the gibbets that had been put up all around the square. All the slaves had been nominally ‘freed’ and then sorted into types. The males of serving age had immediately been pressed into the Mazag army; older males had been given jobs around the army, fetching, carrying, building, storing. The women had been taken by the officers and the prettiest ones forced into servitude, usually for sexual purposes. The others had been passed down the ranks so that by the time it got to squad leaders there were none left to share out.

  The children were put into servitude catching game or repairing clothing, acting as equipment pack-equines, taking weapons and clothing from the stores to the units that needed them. They were assistants to blacksmiths, tanners, cobblers, weavers, sutlers and any number of camp followers that came with the army.

  Around Bukrat a huge sea of tents had sprung up, and the soldiers formed into gangs to fetch wood and construct a wall and towers to go round the town. Bukrat was already being transformed into a Mazag administrative centre.

  In the very heart of the town General Polak had made his headquarters in the former town-chief’s house. It was the most impressive construction there, and the former occupant was hanging from the front garden, his tongue blackened and swollen and protruding from his mouth. Amne was not happy with the new décor but said nothing; she was a guest of Polak and the Mazag and it was not good manners to complain, even if the Mazag were little better than uncouth barbarians. Polak had a simple solution to any obstacle; destroy it.

  Lalaas was under guard in the basement, with three guards ensuring he behaved. Lalaas had little choice; his wrists and ankles were bound and he was chained to the wall by the ironic means of a slave collar. He was given food twice a day but Amne had been advised that she was not to see him as he was dangerous and a princess simply did not lower herself to visit peasant prisoners. Lalaas’ fate was still in the balance. Theros was all for having him hanged. Amne was vehemently opposed to it, and she in fact advised that Theros was the one who ought to be chained up.

  That evening General Polak was holding a celebration banquet in his quarters, both to honour his royal guest and also to mark the conquest and annexation of the newest province of Mazag. The Mazag were tall, dark and burly as a rule, but there were a few exceptions which told of some intermixing of bloodlines. Compared to the more aquiline features of a typical Kastanian, the Mazag were, to Amne’s eyes, found wanting as far as looks went.

  Still, she was a royal guest and Theros had repeatedly told her that her conduct was to be impeccable in front of the uncouth foreigners. Theros sat to Amne’s left, watching her very carefully. No doubt, she thought acidly to herself, making notes to pass onto her father and the court. She shifted herself so that she was sitting as far away from the courtier as she could. Her only problem was that the big, muscular General Polak was sitting on her other side, a sweaty, smelly man with boorish manners and absolutely no idea of how to eat w
hilst keeping his mouth shut.

  She hated being there.

  Wine was being passed around. It wasn’t Kastanian, that was for sure. It was a really heavy and strong red that the Mazag drank in huge quantities, and they boasted that this wine, native to the plains of Mazag, was the best the world could offer. Amne could hardly sip it, it was so acidic. She needed to line her stomach with some food; her last experience of drinking in Bukrat came to her and she felt a pang of loss for the considerate, gentle and courteous man locked in a room below her somewhere. It was so unfair. Theros appeared to hold more influence than she did with the Mazag and she didn’t understand why this was so. She should be the one listened to but her protests were ignored. Politely, but ignored all the same.

  She noticed that the women servants or slaves were treated not as people but as objects, being regularly fondled and groped by the soldiers. There seemed to be no constraints on their behaviour, and it was a concern to her that perhaps women were used merely as objects rather than being treated as people by these foreigners. Kastanian society held men and women as equals in nearly every social level, with one or two exceptions. One was the rule of succession; no woman was permitted to be ruler. If an emperor died then the succession went to the eldest eligible male in the family, whether it be son, brother, uncle or cousin. If none existed, then the throne was up for grabs to the first male who seized power. Kastania had suffered greatly in the civil wars that had come at such times of unclear succession in the past. So now the rule tended to be that when anyone ascended the throne they immediately had to nominate a successor, one that could take over at once should misfortune befall the current incumbent.

  This of course meant that any new emperor with an underage son could not name the boy as his successor. All very well unless, as was the current situation, Astiras suddenly died, leaving Jorqel to make a very tough decision. Argan and Istan were too young, and Amne was not eligible as she was female. However, should she be married, then her husband would be the obvious choice. She was therefore a very desirable choice as a future wife to all the noble houses of Kastan. Upon her return to Kastan it was very likely she’d be the centre of attention of all the young unmarried males of the noble houses. She wondered whether she would have a choice as to whom she could marry. Could Lalaas fit into those plans somehow?

  Suddenly she felt angry; she was nothing but a play-thing to the scheming men around her. She was not a person, merely a tool for their own selfish aims and aspirations. Why should she not have a say in her own future? Her step-mother ran the empire to all intents and purposes, so it was not beyond the capabilities of a woman to wield power in Kastania. She could do the same, and if that ever came to pass, then by the gods she would ensure nobody used her for their own advantage.

  Theros looked at her again. He saw the red spots on her cheeks and her tight lips. “Your highness,” he said in a low voice, “what is bothering you?”

  “Everything, Theros. You bother me. Lalaas being under arrest bothers me. Sitting here at this meal bothers me.”

  “Please,” Theros hissed, concern on his face, “show some dignity and decorum; you are a princess of the Kastanian ruling family. You have your position to maintain!”

  “Don’t talk to me of dignity, Counsel,” Amne spat at him. “You treacherous kivok! You think too highly of your value to me and my father. We shall put an end to this nonsense here and now.”

  Theros paled. “Ma’am, I must emphasise this is a delicate diplomatic mission and the future of our empire depends on securing a favourable treaty with these people. I am the only man who can do this. With all due respect to you, ma’am, you’re merely the figurehead here.”

  Amne sucked in her breath sharply. “How dare you! You shall pay for that!” She turned to General Polak, who was looking at her with interest. He didn’t understand Kastanian but knew that his two guests were having yet another disagreement. He had been brought up to believe, as most Mazag men were, that women were passive creatures and there to service men and be dominated. This Kastanian beauty intrigued him, even at his advanced age. He’d had many women in his lifetime, many as rewards for plunder in war, and his wife had given him five healthy sons. He had no idea nor did he care how many bastards he’d sired. That was the woman’s responsibility and he was thankfully free of any ties to them. Princess Amne was a stunning example of womanhood, and she had spirit, something he wasn’t used to. It tickled his curiosity. Were all Kastanian women like this? If so, then their feeble empire would be worth invading and raping. He hoped his King would look north now that Valchia was his and seek to add Kastania to his growing domain. Polak would take an army all the way to Kastan City and he’d have his choice of the prettiest Kastanian females to sate his hunger. War was good.

  Dealing with a woman was something he felt slightly uncomfortable with, and so he readily took Theros’s side in any dispute or negotiation. He disliked the Counsel, recognising him as a weak and treacherous man, but he had status so had to be accommodated. To the black pits of doom with diplomats!

  “A problem, ma’am?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” Amne replied in her awkward Mazag. “This man is no longer speaking for my father or my empire. He is dismissed.”

  Polak looked past her in surprise. Theros, who spoke fluent Mazag, opened his mouth in surprise. Polak chuckled. “But ma’am, this man speaks my tongue better than you and he has diplomatic status.”

  “Does he sit on Kastan’s throne?” Amne retorted. “My father does. I was sent by him to speak to Mazag. I represent my father. I am of the blood, not this creature here. He is dismissed.”

  Polak shrugged and looked at the guards standing behind him. “Take this man away. He is no longer our guest.”

  Theros stood up, alarm on his face. “This is outrageous!”

  Polak flicked a lazy finger of dismissal and the two guards took hold of the protesting man by the arms and began dragging him out of the room. Theros struggled to no avail, then looked over his shoulder. “I shall see to it that your father hears of this insult to one of his diplomats!”

  Amne sat still, trying to compose herself. Her heart was beating rapidly. She wasn’t sure that what she’d just done was the right thing, but she felt that she now had more control over her own destiny. The flush on her face gradually subsided, but now she realised she was on her own in a room full of big strong Mazag men. They were all looking at her, waiting.

  She smiled and cleared her throat. “I apologise for that. I have one last favour to ask. Can you please free my bodyguard and return him to my service? Thank you.”

  Polak shrugged again. He nodded to another guard who left abruptly. “So, the Princess of Kastania is at last showing that she indeed is of the ruling House.”

  Amne looked at him sharply, and saw a smile on the general’s face. There was also a look of respect in his eyes. She suddenly had a burst of clarity in her mind how the Mazag looked upon people. Strength was respect. Command was respect. Subservience was looked upon with contempt.

  She sat up straight and looked Polak full in the eyes. “General, you have said you have full authority from your prince to conduct diplomatic talks with me. My father is eager to secure a deal with our neighbours the Mazag people. I say we should hold these talks here and now.”

  General Polak raised an eyebrow, then smiled again. “Of course, why not, my lady? I shall call for scribes to record these talks. One copy for my prince, one copy for your father and one copy to be held here.” He issued orders, and while they waited for the scribes to arrive, Lalaas turned up, looking a little worse for the wear but apart from that showing no ill effects from his incarceration.

  Amne brought him up to date with events and he nodded when told of Theros’s arrest. He hadn’t seen him so he assumed the diplomat was being held elsewhere. His sword and light armour were returned to him and he redressed and buckled his sword on proudly. Amne gave him one dazzling beam of a smile which he caught and smiled back briefly, then
took up his position directly behind her. Standing tall and true, he gave the warriors of Mazag a level stare. The Mazag nodded to themselves; they recognised a fellow fighter, and one who had the inner strength to call out to them subconsciously that he was not a man to take lightly. They did likewise in return and Lalaas gave one slight nod of acknowledgement. Both parties then ignored each other, satisfied that their respective strengths had been seen and recognised by the other side.

  The scribes arrived and Polak took a long draught of Kotak wine, the full bodied red of Mazag, wiped his lips on his sleeve, belched, and then declared the talks open. Amne thought she’d prefer the courtly horns of Kastan to announce an event, but she was a guest so she would have to go along with the customs of her hosts. She wondered whether she ought to belch too, but decided it was not appropriate and she could always ask Lalaas afterwards.

  “Mazag wish for peace with the honoured people of Kastania,” Polak began in a booming voice. “It is our desire to live as friends alongside each other, respecting our customs, culture and ways. It has always been our desire to recognise Kastania as a friend.”

  Amne nodded. She had been warned about the flowery use of such proclamations. Much of it was empty meaningless rhetoric, but it was only to be expected. She had been told to respond accordingly. “Kastania is pleased that our neighbours and friends the Mazag wish for peace. We too wish for this, and are happy to agree with the mighty Mazag nation for a mutual agreement declaring this to the rest of the lands and kingdoms. Together we can stand as an example of how nations and peoples can live alongside each other in friendship.”

  Polak showed his teeth. He recognised the pompous tone as a reflection of his own insincerity. This princess showed promise. A pity he could not seal the agreement by taking her to his bedchamber for a more personal alliance of their bodies. He was not of royal blood. Maybe his master the prince could woo her? That would make any alliance that much stronger. He would have to get the camp artist to sketch her features so that his prince could see for himself what a beauty she was. There would be no need to exaggerate her looks; she was simply and outrageously a stunner. “We welcome such words of friendship. We are pleased to see the honourable House of Koros on the throne of Kastania. It was certain that we would not be able to form such a close alliance with your predecessors. May your House reign for many years and grow stronger.”