House of Lust

by Tony Roberts

  To matters in hand. Someone had found out and was now using it to cause harm to the Koros. Why? And, equally important, what were they hoping for in letting her know of her husband’s infidelity? The marriage to break up? That in itself would not cause the Koros to fall, but it would weaken their hold, and their unity would be broken.

  What would happen to her if she did leave him? She would lose her title of empress, and it would jeopardise the futures of both Argan and Istan – and their offspring – in relation to the throne of Kastania. No, she would publically stay by Astiras’ side, damn his soul – and also his loins – but she could no longer trust him to be faithful. If he strayed with one, then he could do so with more. Perhaps there were more? Oh, by the gods, it was not good thinking of that.

  So – who? Turslenka and Makenia were connected, and two people in the household here had clear origins there. One was the political advisor, Fostan Anglis. A man whom she hadn’t quite made a connection with. Always polite, efficient, but something there wasn’t right about him, too, just like Metila. He seemed, well, distant, and as if something was there in the way between him and the Koros. Perhaps she was imagining it or looking for something to prove her suspicions, but he was a suspect.

  The other was the emperor’s biographer, Golten Mirrodan. Mirrodan had been with them now for something like two years or so, and so far had done nothing to arouse any suspicion as to his loyalties. He came from Turslenka.

  She shook her head. It could be either, or neither of them. She needed more information, that was certain. She didn’t trust Astiras to go about it the correct way. He’d probably have the guilty party eviscerated and left hanging in a cage for a moon from the ramparts before he got any useful information from him.

  ___

  Elsewhere in the castle Argan was staring at yet another yellowed sheet of parchment, weighed down at all four corners by solid objects on his desk. “So, Mr. Sen,” he said to his tutor, the rotund and scholastic Iovan Sen, “an important foundation of any kingdom, empire or realm are the peasants and farmers.”

  Mr. Sen nodded sagely. “Without the farmers and low-classes there is no generation of goods and services, and without that there are no taxes, or food. I doubt any of us would last long enough if we had to rely on ourselves to produce food or manufacture goods.”

  “I see. So by destroying the lowest classes you destroy yourself.”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, from a ruler’s point of view. If you wish to create a desert then wipe out the people and have an empty land.”

  “Would that really create a desert? Is that how deserts are made?”

  Mr. Sen smiled. Apart from the now deeper voice, Argan’s curiosity and enthusiasm for learning was unchanged. “In places where there is little water, yes. Unless the land is irrigated then soon all that is left is dust and sand, and it’s so much harder to change it to a fertile place when that has happened.”

  “But here it would not be a desert as it rains.”

  “True enough, sire, but a desert does not necessarily have to be of sand and dust. Anywhere where nothing grows is a desert, and one can use it in describing something else, for example a person with no ideas and wit could be said to be in possession of a desert in his or her head.”

  “Ah,” Argan put his book flat on his desk and thought on that for a moment. “Using nouns as adjectives.”

  Mr. Sen beamed. “Precisely. It appears some of what I’ve told you has stuck in that head of yours.”

  “I remember most things, Mr. Sen. Sometimes it gives me a headache, but I remember.”

  “Oh, not like your old headaches, I hope? We don’t want that to happen again!”

  Argan shook his head. “No, not like the ones I used to have before Metila cured me. I don’t even have nose bleeds either.”

  “A very curious thing that was too, may I say, young prince. Still, amongst other things it’s given you a wonderful ability to recall memories and things you’ve learned. You’re way beyond your age in understanding matters.”

  Argan grinned. Mr. Sen saw something of Astiras in the smile. The boy had become steely-minded and much more confident since his near-death experience and his healing at the hands of Metila. He had changed subtly, but he was still the pleasant-minded humorous prince of old. So much preferable to his brother, Istan. Mr. Sen was thankful he did not have to tutor him; that was the responsibility of Gallis, that former priest who had accepted the job without a murmur of complaint, and stoically stuck to his task no matter the abuse heaped on him by the foul-tempered Istan.

  “I think that’s enough for this morning, sire,” Mr. Sen announced, glancing at the sun angling through the narrow arrow slit. “It will be time for your martial lesson with Panat Afos soon.”

  “Yes – a quick snack, then a change and its more hacking and gouging at a post and learning to duck that horrible swinging thing. It whacked me the other day – and it hurt, I can tell you!”

  Mr. Sen nodded in sympathy. “Best you learn the hard way now; it might come in useful when you do get in a real battle. Learn to watch your back.”

  “Yes. Perhaps Venn will use loads of those swinging machines in battle? It’d be hard to defeat!”

  Mr. Sen chuckled at Argan’s humour. It was offbeat, to say the least, but inoffensive. He stood and bowed to Argan as the prince left with a wave.

  Argan walked along the passageway of the day chambers of the keep, on the first floor. An occasional guard either stood on duty or came walking past on their rounds. All saluted with their volgar, that fearsome looking bladed weapon on a long pole, slapping it close to their side and putting one arm across their chests. Argan inclined his head in acknowledgement to all. He was mindful that as one of the ruling House, he had to show manners to all. So many of the preceding rulers, the Fokis, the Duras and others, had forgotten that they could only be popular if they treated their subjects fairly. As Mr. Sen had once remarked, a ruler is only ruler for life.

  The two associates of Istan were lounging indolently by an archway, set at the end of the passageway by the staircase that ran down to the ground floor. It was a major junction as in the other direction it ran round the edge of the great hallway and then vanished up into another staircase that led to the upper floors. The two were wearing daggers, which was strictly against the rules, and apparently were doing nothing other than passing the time of day making unflattering comments about the people who passed by. They weren’t necessarily leaving enough space for these people to get through, depending on their social station.

  The door they were outside was Istan’s classroom, so he was clearly learning something from Gallis – or maybe trying not to learn something, Argan corrected himself in his mind. As he went to pass, one of the two, the bigger one, stepped across his path, not looking at him.

  Argan stopped. “Move aside,” he said curtly.

  The Bragalese youth looked round in mock surprise. “Oh, forgive me, your highness,” he made the title sound like an insult. “I didn’t see you there.”

  The second one smirked infuriatingly.

  “So are you going to move?” Argan asked, seeing the first one still hadn’t moved.

  “What? Oh yes, forgive me,” and he smiled in that false way everyone knew was insincere before stepping back leaving just enough for Argan to squeeze past.

  The prince regarded the two. Istan had associated himself with this pair as they were clearly the most unpleasant and obnoxious duo in Zofela of that age. They were perhaps a year younger than Argan. Istan had decided that he needed two who were bigger and older than he, just to intimidate the other youngsters, and it had worked.

  Argan knew they would not actually lay a hand on him, as that was akin to the death penalty, but they would push the boundaries elsewhere. He moved past them and thought he heard something vulgar in Bragalese muttered by one of the two. He turned. “You two seem to have nothing to do. The porcines need mucking out in the yard. Come with me.”

  “We�
��re not servants,” the bigger one replied insolently.

  “You will do what I say or I’ll have the pair of you thrown out of the castle and you won’t return,” Argan said in fluent Bragalese, just to drive home the point. “You’re nothing but a couple of idle people here doing nothing of use. This cannot continue. Follow me.”

  “We follow Prince Istan,” the other one said. “He’s our master, not you.”

  “When you speak to me you will address me by my position, little boy. Now move or I’ll have both of you arrested and put in the dungeon.”

  The bigger one stood up to Argan, flexing his arms and Argan stood facing him, his eyes boring into the sullen peasant boy’s. With a sneer the boy turned and waved his companion to accompany him down to the ground floor. Argan took the lead once they were down and showed them out to the pens. A couple of workers were standing by the wooden fence. “Two helpers,” the prince announced to them. “The porcines need cleaning. Make sure these two do a good job.”

  The workers grinned and bowed. Nobody liked the duo and were pleased that somebody had at last taken them to task.

  Feeling happier, Argan made his way to his quarters and lay down quietly for a short while, then changed into his rough clothes and made his way back out to begin his afternoon swordplay lessons. He went via the kitchen on the ground floor and grinned at the cooks who passed him a wooden platter with a few thin slices of meat and a sweet bread on it. Argan nodded his thanks and sat at a bench, eating his lunch.

  Kerrin appeared and sat opposite, helping himself to the platter. “Your brother isn’t happy with you, ‘Gan.”

  “He never is,” Argan washed down his food with a beaker of water. He cared little for the rich ostentatious food the nobility seemed to prefer. “What’s his grump this time?”

  “You ordered his two friends to muck out the animals. He’s really cross, threatening to kill you and everything.”

  Argan snorted. “He couldn’t hit a fantor with a spade. He’s a silly grump who just likes to hate people for something to do.”

  Kerrin nodded. “Even so, his two friends complained and your brother has gone to your mother about it.”

  “How did you hear this?”

  “I was looking for you upstairs and I passed your mother’s room. Istan was screeching like a rusty door at her. You should have heard the way he was talking! Ordering her to have you arrested and put in the dungeon!”

  “Huh, he’s got no hope of that. If he carries on like that he’ll be the one locked up. Maybe I’ll put a porcine in with him to show him eating manners.”

  Kerrin choked on his food laughing. Argan slapped his back, seeing adults having done that in the past. As he was busy pounding on his friend’s back, a guard turned up. “Excuse me, sire,” he bowed to Argan, “but the empress wants you in her quarters.”

  “Oh, alright. Thank you,” Argan said. He sighed and looked down at his red-faced companion. “Might as well listen to grump and mother. Come on, you can stand outside while I get told off yet again.”

  The two made their way back up to the top and Argan felt a churning in his guts. He always had a bad feeling when summoned to his mother. She always seemed to be hard on him about everything, while excusing the younger Istan. He wondered why that was so – he never worried about being told off and it only made him more spiteful. Why didn’t someone stand up to him?

  The door was ajar and Argan passed the two guards on duty and went in. His mother was seated behind her desk and Istan was standing before it. He turned round and his face was furious. “You don’t ever tell my friends to do anything ever!” he screamed, red-faced.

  “Shut-up,” Argan said and looked at his mother. “What has this horrible thing been crying to you about?”

  Istan shouted in fury and swung his fist in a wild swing, intending to catch Argan around the face. Argan saw it coming, and his training with the weighted swing on the martial training field came to him. He swayed back smartly at the waist and the blow passed harmlessly by. Without even thinking Argan’s riposte was on the way, striking his brother under the ribs. Istan doubled up clutching his midriff and sank to the ground gasping.

  “Stop it! Both of you!” Isbel screamed, on her feet. “Argan – how many times have I told you never to hit your brother?”

  “But you never tell him about hitting me, mother.”

  Isbel came round the desk, her eyes flashing in anger. “Don’t answer me back, young man. You’re getting too far above yourself.”

  “As a prince, how far is that, mother?”

  Isbel sucked in her breath and bent to help a crying Istan. The boy angrily shook off her hand and got to his feet, tears streaming down his face. “You hit me! Mother, you saw that! That’s the death penalty! Nobody can strike a prince. Have him hung in the yard!”

  “Istan, don’t be silly,” Isbel said soothingly. “You struck out first.”

  Argan looked at Istan in contempt. “Always starting fights and can’t win without running to mother.”

  “Shut up you! I’ll go to father and have him sign your execution!”

  “Istan, be quiet!” Isbel snapped. “Argan, I want you to apologise to Istan for ordering his friends to muck out the porcines.”

  “I shall not, mother. If you force me to do that, then they shall continue with their horrible behaviour knowing I have no authority over them. Bragalese peasant boys being protected from a prince of the House of Koros? What next? Father would be furious.”

  The empress set her lips together in a thin line. Things were getting beyond control with the two’s constant squabbling. In trying to be equitable and fair to both, she had fallen into the trap of not pleasing either. “Very well, since both of you speak of your father, let him decide on this matter, since neither of you are prepared to listen to me. Follow me.” She strode angrily past them and jerked the door wide. “Out.”

  Argan glared at Istan who sneered and both kept a wary eye on the other as they slowly made their way out into the passageway. Isbel was seething. Let her beloved husband sort this one out; time he actually had some interaction with the two boys anyway. She was tired of trying to be the peacemaker. It was just one thing too much for her in her present state of mind. Argan waved to Kerrin to remain where he was. This wasn’t a situation he could get involved in.

  They stopped outside the emperor’s office. Isbel motioned the guard to open the door which he did, and Isbel pushed both boys into the room ahead of her. Heads looked up in surprise as the three entered. Astiras was in the act of telling Frendicus what funds to set aside for paying the garrison and he frowned, his eyes narrowed. “What is this?”

  “Your sons are arguing – yet again,” Isbel announced. “This is a family matter.”

  Astiras hesitated a moment, then slapped the parchment he was holding into Frendicus’ hand. “Go. Return here once this matter is concluded. The rest of you – out.” The tax man, Pepil the major domo and the few others in the room hurriedly left, not liking the tone in the emperor’s voice, nor the icy glare they were getting from the empress.

  “Very well, what is this deadly important matter I must make a decision on?”

  Isbel filled him in, jabbing her finger at each boy in turn. Argan stood still, staring fixedly straight ahead, while Istan affected a hurt expression and kept on looking at Argan, then back to his father.

  “I see,” Astiras said, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Argan, I cannot see what wrong you have done, except perhaps not advising your younger brother what you were going to do. Istan, your associates must learn to respect other members of my family. I will not permit you teaching them to disrespect the House of Koros. If you fail to do so then I will take those people away from you and you will not be allowed to have any more until you reach the Age of Maturity. Do I make myself clear?”

  “But that’s not fair!” Istan burst out, aggrieved. “You always take Argan’s side! He’s such a cry-baby!”

  Argan’s hands balled in anger,
but Astiras stood up straight and pointed a finger at the younger boy. “I certainly do not! If you cannot work out right from wrong, then you certainly are not fit to be a governor, let alone an emperor.”

  Istan seethed and lapsed into a hurt silence. Argan relaxed and looked directly at his father.

  “There, that’s settled. No apology is warranted,” Astiras folded his arms across his chest. “I do not wish to hear of any such squabble again. Do I make myself clear, you two?”

  “Yes, sire,” Argan replied.

  “Well, Istan?” Astiras asked softly.

  Istan nodded tightly, his face red.

  “Good. Now please let me get on with running the empire, if that’s alright by you two?”

  Isbel sucked in her breath deeply. “Don’t forget tonight is the Council Meeting. Delegates are arriving as we speak.”

  “I’m aware of that, dear,” Astiras said. “I’m settling the day’s chores before preparing for the meeting. I shall see you there.”

  “Indeed you will. I’ll let you get back to running the empire, dear,” she said acidly, and waved the two boys out.

  As they walked along the corridor Istan kicked out at Argan in spite. Argan saw it coming and rode the worst of the blow, then slapped Istan across the jaw. Isbel swung round furiously. “Stop it! Stop it, both of you! I’m sick of the two of you!” and she slapped both, something she hadn’t done for a long time. Argan clutched his arm in reflex, although the blow hadn’t hurt that much, but Istan cried out in rage and swung his arm in a wild blow. Isbel stepped back hastily, alarmed, as his fist narrowly missed her.

  “Don’t you dare strike at mother!” Argan snapped and sent a fist into Istan, knocking him back against the wall. Istan clutched his jaw and screamed, then came at Argan, hands clawed. Argan stood his ground and sent his brother staggering onto the other wall, then followed up with another hefty punch that sent the boy to the ground. “You try that again, Istan, and I won’t stop hurting you – ever. Never – ever! – touch mother, you understand?”

  Istan sat on the ground, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. Isbel sighed and went to step forward, but Argan held out an arm and stood up straight, looking her in the face. His head was now up to her throat level. “Mother, no. He’s only doing it for sympathy, wanting you to feel sorry for him. He feels nothing that he shows. He’s evil and selfish.”