by Tony Roberts
“Oh, fear not, young Prince, I believe he will. He knows that. Defeat is unthinkable. Fortunately for us Mazag would prefer a Kastanian victory. They see Kastania as weak and prefer a weak neighbour rather than a newly independent and fiercely nationalistic one. Venn and Zilcia probably watch to see how our army fares before making a decision, but they will come, mark my words. One day.”
Argan still remembered those words and looked out onto the rain, wondering what his father was doing. Was he still fighting? Was he winning? Amne had told him of the awful conditions at Zofela, and the piteous state of the Bragalese defences. She was certain it would have to surrender by the spring. Nobody was listening anymore to their cries for help. All those who had campaigned within Kastan for Bragalese independence were gone, either arrested or dead. No support for Bragal was permitted.
Argan sighed and turned away, and looked around his room. It was cold. Perhaps a nice warm soup would cheer him up. He left his room and the guard outside stepped into line, following him. Ever since Vosgaris had fallen down some stairs, so he said, he had allowed a guard to escort him around rather than himself. Argan thought about that. Perhaps Vosgaris was worried he’d fall down more steps and not be able to guard Argan properly. Vosgaris’ bumps and bruises had taken a few days to clear up. Mother had been cross at him. Maybe she thought Vosgaris had been a clumsy fantor.
Vosgaris seemed happier since then, though. Argan didn’t know why, and he realised grown-ups were very strange people. He decided to go get Kerrin and they could share a bowl of soup in the kitchen. Kerrin was studying equines, and their behaviour. It seemed Kerrin was being taught the role of a bodyguard; his father had said since he himself had been a bodyguard, so his son should be too. Argan wanted Kerrin to be his bodyguard. They were good friends and he thought Kerrin would be a much better bodyguard if they were friends.
Kerrin put away the big book with the pictures of war equines in it happily enough when Argan appeared. Although they were followed by the guard, the two boys were soon giggling between themselves at private jokes and observations that usually involved animal parts. The guard walked about ten paces behind, his volgar over his shoulder, very much relaxed at the duty he had pulled. It was better than standing in the cold and wet outside by a doorway that very few people used, and it often was boring as well as hard. The guard sergeant then often bellowed at the poor unfortunate guard to clean themselves and their equipment up and get all the wet off it as rust was not permitted.
Not that being a palace guard was bad; the food was good, the position looked up to – although not always with fondness – by the other military units, and they carried the fearsome palace polearm, the volgar. It was a status symbol, a weapon that was designed to unseat a rider from his equine and to slice open the hardest armour. Best of all the pay was good. It would be no good for the palace guard to be poorly paid, for that would leave them open to bribery by almost anyone. Of course, the late unlamented Captain Mercos had been amongst the most corrupt of corrupt people, but he had rarely passed any of his ill-gotten lucre down to his men.
However these days no palace guard unit ever went to war; they were there purely to guard the palace and the emperor when he was there. Their numbers had declined, too, for they were expensive and the empire these days was hard-strapped for money.
Argan had little idea of all this, for he was more interested in the sweet pastries the cooks were making. He and Kerrin were practically drooling at the sight of the trays of the baked things coming out of the ovens. Argan smiled and walked confidently up to the senior cook who curtseyed at the sight of him, surprise in her eyes. “Why, Prince Argan! It’s an honour to see you here. Is there anything wrong?”
“Oh, no, Reena,” Argan recalled her name; he had been told it was important for someone like him to remember names because it was rude not to. He wondered how he could possibly remember all the people’s names, but he would try his hardest. “Kerrin and I just love your sweet pastries and we each wanted to try one out!”
Reena wondered whether that was proper, given that dinner would be served shortly, but she could hardly refuse a prince of the ruling dynasty. Besides, the two boys were standing so happily before her, big, wide grins on their faces and their eyes like freshly-landed aquatic beasts, popping wide staring at the pastries. She wrapped two in serving paper and handed them to the boys who thanked her, then ran off through the kitchen and out the back.
The guard suddenly realised the boys were out of his sight and stumbled hurriedly through the kitchen to the back exit, but by the time he’d clumsily got to the doorway, the boys were gone. Putting his hand to his head in dismay, he ran down the narrow passageway and stared out of the left hand turning, the way out to the servant’s courtyard, but the boys were nowhere to be seen. The other way led to the servant’s quarters, and there were dozens and dozens of those, all linked by narrow passageways and corridors. A state of near panic gripped the guard, and he plunged into the labyrinth, calling out to the two boys. If it became known he’d lost the two boys, he would be severely disciplined.
A few paces away Argan and Kerrin giggled behind their hands and waited until the guard had gone deep into the servants’ quarters before emerging from the little alcove they’d hidden in and ran out into the servants’ courtyard. It was wet and cold but they didn’t care. A small ladder stood against the wall, a means of access to the roof from the rear of the palace for the workmen. The ladder was in poor repair, having not been used for some time, and it wasn’t secured properly against the wall. Some of the wooden rungs were missing but the two boys athletically clambered up past these and up onto the sloping roof of the servant’s wing, an annexe of the palace that ran at right angles from the main palace building and at a lower height.
Following the wooden plank walkway put there for the purpose of allowing the long dead workmen to traverse the roof, they climbed up and then down as they passed the apex of the annexe roof. The higher buildings of the palace proper hemmed the boys in on three sides while the fourth, the side they had just crossed, hid them from the ground so that here they were unseen from any place. Kerrin had discovered this one day during a game of exploring, and had told Argan about it. Since then the two boys had often sneaked onto the roof when they could but this was the first time they had actually slipped away from a guard to get to their hiding place.
The roof was smoothly tiled and the slope ended in a gutter that ran against the vertically rising wall of the main palace. There was no ladder here, but there were broken off brackets where one had once been before, in some time long past, it had either been taken away or had fallen into such disrepair that it had eventually rotted.
They two boys sat against the vertical wall with their legs out straight, crossing the gutter and their feet lay on the slope of the roof they had just crossed. They got their sweet pastries out of their pockets and began to eat them. Although it was drizzling and it was cold, they were happy enough in their secret hiding place. Argan had a cloth cap on that kept his head relatively warm while Kerrin had a small wide brimmed tin helmet his father had made him to practice his swordsmanship in, and he’d taken to wearing it whenever he was out. It was an old militia foot soldier’s style of helmet that had largely gone out of fashion in the last fifty years or so.
“Do you think we’ll get into trouble, ‘Gan?” Kerrin asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What, for losing that guard?” Argan chuckled. “Mother will fuss but she’s a bit of an old fuss pot, really.”
Kerrin looked at his friend in shock. “You can’t say that about her – she’s the empress!”
“Aw, phooey!” Argan said. “She’s my mother and far too fussy over me. She thinks I’ll break a leg or something when I’m out of her sight. She’s turned into a mother fowl, clucking over everything.” He folded his elbows and flapped them against his side. “Bwaak, bwaak!”
Kerrin half choked on his crumbs with laughter. Argan slapped his back, much like he�
�d seen some adults do to people when they coughed on a drink or food. Kerrin stopped, red-faced, but still giggling. “You’re sooo funny, ‘Gan. You’re not like a prince.”
“Why not? I am a prince!”
“Well, princes aren’t supposed to be funny, are they?”
“I don’t know, I’ve only seen Jorqel and that was before he was a prince. Oh, and Fantor-Face.”
Kerrin looked at his friend in surprise. “Who? What? Who’s a fantor-face?”
“Oh, Istan. Always eating.”
“Fantor-face?” and Kerrin dissolved into another bout of laughter, holding his stomach. He doubled up and Argan looked on, smiling, until Kerrin raised his head again. Tears were flowing down his cheeks. “Fantor-face,” he whispered between laughs. “That’s so funny!”
Argan shrugged. It was just a name he’d thought up. “That’s what I always think of him as.”
“Well it’s really funny. Fantor Face.” Kerrin chuckled some more, then wiped the tears from his face.
Argan stuck his hands in his pockets. There were crumbs in one of them and he flicked them out into the gutter. “I can’t see how Fantor-Face will ever be a proper prince. He’s supposed to be a leader of the people. That’s what mother and father tell me I have to be. How can you be a leader if you’re always in a bad mood and stuffing your face all the time?”
Kerrin thought on that for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe he’ll be the prince of the kitchen?”
Argan smiled at that. “He can stay there and stuff himself and leave being a proper prince to Jorqel and me!”
“And Elas Pelgion,” Kerrin added.
“Oh. Is he going to be a prince?” Argan asked in surprise.
“Don’t you know that? My father said because he’s marrying the princess then that’ll make him a prince.”
“Oh.” Argan’s face clouded. “That means he could become emperor one day. He’s too serious.”
Kerrin looked down at his lap. “Father says an emperor has to be serious.”
“But Jorqel is going to be emperor! Everyone knows that!”
Kerrin nodded. “But after Jorqel – will you be emperor? I think you ought to be!”
Argan breathed out hard, his face turned up towards the sky, allowing the droplets of rain to patter onto his skin. “Being emperor is very hard. Everyone wants you at the same time. Lots of people want to kill you because they want to be emperor. You have to make lots of desisss- “ he worked slowly through the word, “de-sicions. Decisions. They all have to be the right ones, too. You have to be very clever. I’m not so clever as father or Jorqel.”
Kerrin put has hand on Argan’s arm. “You are, too. When you grow up you’ll be just as clever, I bet you will. And I’ll be your bestest bodyguard.”
Argan smiled wanly, then shut his eyes and relaxed against the wall behind him. “Being a prince is hard enough what with remembering to be good and polite and everything. I’m not allowed to go where I want, too. It’s poo.”
“So? I can’t go where I want either. Father’s always telling me I must be on my best behaviour especially around you and your family. He thinks I might be sent away from the palace if I don’t behave!”
“That’s bigger poo. I won’t let them send you away. Anyway, we behave the same so if they send you away they’ll have to send me too. So there.”
Kerrin grinned shyly. “You’d stop them sending me away?”
“Of course! You’re my best friend! These silly people are too serious.”
The two boys smiled and clasped hands for a moment. After a short while Argan sighed and brushed the rain from his jacket. “Well, best get back before mother starts clucking like a mother fowl again. Bwaak bwaak!”
Kerrin giggled and followed Argan back up the sloping roof and down the other side towards the ladder. Argan turned round and slowly began climbing down towards the ground. But the ladder was old and rotting and as the prince put a foot on one of the rungs, ten from the ground, it suddenly snapped.
Argan grabbed the sides of the ladder in a reflex action but the rain had made the slick wood even slipperier, and his grip broke with his weight being transferred to his hands. Argan shrieked in fright as he plunged twelve feet to the grassed over surface, striking the ground with a sickening blow, crumpling into a heap. Kerrin yelled in fright and horror and remained stuck on the ladder above the break, screaming for help, peering at the silent and still form of his friend.
CHAPTER-FIFTY FOUR
The seas heaved and tossed, white-topped spray flying off the surface into the chill air, soaking the lone ship rolling and pitching close to the black, rocky shore. The captain wrestled with the steering oar, bracing his legs on the madly dancing deck, cursing the insane decision to sail in late winter. He cursed the Koros for contracting him, he cursed the gods for throwing the seasonal storm at him, he cursed the lone silent figure standing by himself close to the rail, peering at the rocks being exposed and then hidden by the rising and falling waves, and he cursed himself for being stupidly greedy and taking a lucrative job.
The coast of Romos along the south-eastern shore was well known to all sailors for being hostile and dangerous. Rocks had sent the unwary to watery graves for centuries and only fools sailed close to Romos. Double fools sailed close in winter. Triple fools did so when the storms came. The captain peered ahead through the rain and spray, squinting his eyes. Two lookouts were tied to the prow, one on each bow, watching the seas ahead, ready to scream out a warning of any danger that presented itself.
The ship was a single-masted fishing vessel, light, manoeuvrable, and had a crew of eight. The seas around Romos were too dangerous these days thanks to the pirates that operated out of the only port along its hazardous coasts, and the prospect of sending a Koros spy ashore to help end the curse of the pirates was one too good to pass up, especially when it had been accompanied by gold. But now, when faced with the imminent prospect of being dashed into little pieces against the fang-toothed sentinels guarding the Romos shoreline, such decisions seemed insane.
The passenger finally moved. At his feet on the deck lay a small circular object, attached to him by a rope. In one smooth movement the man had pulled the object up onto his back, climbed the rail on the starboard side and stepped over the side into the heaving water. The sound of him hitting the waves was lost in the storm; the wind whistling through the mast rigging and the waves writhing like some maddened animal drowned any noise out.
Relieved of his passenger, the captain hauled with relief on the steering oar and pointed his ship away from the vicious black objects thirty paces away. The tide was running from astern so it was not driving his ship onto the rocks, and the wind was coming from ahead, almost cancelling each other out. The captain wanted to be away from Romos as soon as possible. Not only was the shore dangerous, but the possibility that pirates could spot him at any time added to his apprehension. With some relief he began to put distance between the shore and himself.
The passenger clung to the netting that surrounded the circular shape he had brought with him; lighter than water it floated high on the surface, giving him buoyancy. The only problem was to guide himself through the rocks and onto the shore. He’d studied the rocks and cliffs for some time before spotting a place that could allow him to land in relative safety. He now kicked his feet hard, dragging himself and his float towards the gap in the jagged line. Beyond it, about three men’s height in distance, stood the solid black shelf of the foot of the cliff the seas pounded themselves relentlessly against.
The sea was trying to push him beyond the gap but the man kicked hard and pushed the float, a round mass made of the cured flesh of aquatic mammals and strengthened with the porous bark of a particular tree that grew in Lodria, into the gap. Immediately the force of the tide lessened and now he only had to contend with the ebb and flow of the waves that pushed their way through and up against the shelf.
His feet struck a hard, solid object and he realised he had found the sea
bed, shelving steeply up from the depths. If it followed the angle of the cliffs looming blackly above him, then it would go down far in only a short distance from the shoreline. Staggering to his feet with some difficulty, he pulled the float after him against the sucking of the dying wave as it retreated, and threw himself onto the shelf, standing half the height of a man above the water. The next wave came in, reaching the shelf and it enabled him to haul the float onto the black rock surface.
The shelf was uneven but flat enough to be able to sit down on, and fell back half of his height to where the cliff began to rise up in fractured, jagged shapes to the top, out of sight in the rain and gloom of the poor light offered by the storm. The man produced a sharp and wicked looking knife from his belt, a specially made belt of hard leather he’d paid for in the backstreets of Niake, and slashed apart the netting on the float, then sought out the seam on the float itself.
A flash of lightning lit up the area and the man, identifiable as Kiros Louk, flinched and cursed. It served to do two things; one, it ruined his eyesight, and two, it may reveal him to anyone looking on. Not that anyone would be looking on in this weather, but he could do without it.
The rolling thunder accompanied him slicing open the float along the seam. Slowly it flopped open, the air hissing out, and it deflated onto the rock shelf, leaving a lumpy interior. Kiros cut the float open along a new surface, opening out the interior, revealing the contents he had put there before the voyage had begun from Efsia, to the north of Slenna.
As he began pulling his equipment from the now ruined float, his mind cast itself back a few sevendays when prince Jorqel had summoned him to his half-built quarters in the newly rising castle keep high above the churned up soil and mud of the outer edges of Slenna.
As usual, Kiros Louk had arrived unannounced, suddenly appearing as if my magic in Jorqel’s quarters, much to the irritation of the Prince. “I wish you’d enter by the normal method, Louk!”
