by Tony Roberts
“You’re destroying my family!” Isbel wept.
“Oh, phuth!” he threw his arms up. “You can go visit him as I have already said. Be realistic, woman.”
“I hate you,” Isbel said, looking up at him.
“So I have noticed,” Astiras commented, and unclipped his breastplate, throwing it to the floor. He sat in a chair and began divesting himself of his leg armour. “As has every other person in the castle, by the way.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“We’ve gone over all that already – you’re starting to sound like a mimic avian. I’ve said sorry, I’ve said it won’t happen again.”
“But you’re off down to Turslenka in a few days – hot foot to that slut, no doubt!”
“Hot foot to see Thetos and to settle Argan into his new home, yes. Metila will be commanded to remain away from me. I have to speak to Vosgaris, too. I hope he’s got somewhere with his investigations.” He stood up and dropped the last of his armour to the rug, then peeled off the padding underneath. “Ahh, that’s better, I was cooking inside that damned stuff.”
“You’re getting fat,” Isbel noted, eyeing his stomach.
Astiras patted his midriff. “Comfortable. I’m fifty-three, after all, and no youngster anymore.” He gave Isbel a good visual examination. “You’re still in good shape. How do you do that?”
“Never you mind, I won’t be touched by you.”
Astiras stepped forward. “You’re still my wife, and mine to touch when I feel like it.” He took hold of her shoulders.
She beat his arms and neck but he pushed her arms aside, crushing them against her breasts. He kissed her and she tried to twist aside but he pinned her against the wall and kissed her neck, head and hair. Isbel tried to kick out but that was a bad move, for he was suddenly between her legs, firmly parting them with his own, and now his loins were rubbing against hers.
Isbel pleaded for him to stop but Astiras was not listening, pinning her arms down now with one arm round them and her midriff so that his other hand was free to massage and rub her breasts, unfastening her dress with some difficulty, but managing it. Years of being together had given him the knowledge of where to touch her and she felt his fingers sliding and rubbing along those places, and his lips were everywhere, her body heating up and sending tingles throughout. He was too strong for her and it had been a long time since she had been touched like that and she couldn’t resist his pressing any more. He lowered her to the floor and she surrendered to him, her eyes closing as passion engulfed her and that feeling overcoming her as he penetrated her.
She clung to him, partly crying, partly gasping, her emotions mixed up into one formless mass. Sometime during the experience he carried her to the bed and resumed, removing her clothes and repeatedly ravishing her into climax after climax.
___
Argan was surprised to be summoned to the throne room, a chamber on the first floor close to the administrative offices. It was only used for visiting diplomats, nobles or petitioners, and his father – or mother – would sit in the throne raised on the central dais and give their edict to whomever.
This day he was escorted by Kerrin, now recovered but still sporting the bruises from his beating, both in their finest clothing, as they had been told to be smart and presentable. This was an official summons. Argan was doubly surprised to see Istan in the antechamber along with one of his Bragalese companions. Pepil was there, watching both brothers. After exchanging scowls, both remained on opposite sides of the room. Pepil told both to remember who they were and what they represented.
They were shown into the chamber at the same time, striding on the red strip of carpet that led to the dais. Argan saw both his parents sat on their thrones, Isbel’s off to the left on a slightly smaller one. Astiras was dressed in his most colourful imperial regalia, purple and gold dominating, and on his head was the Crown of Kastania.
Both knew how to perform and they knelt at the bottom of the dais, then, upon being commanded to rise, stood, an arm’s length apart. Other than emperor and empress, there were four guards plus two scribes on the dais, and courtiers stood close by behind the two princes. “Welcome Princes Argan and Istan,” Astiras began.
Argan was somewhat intimidated looking up at his father, and had the thought that probably that was what was intended. The full imperial regalia, long coat, boots, smart shimmering leggings of purple coloured wormspun, the tunic displaying the Kastanian double circle and bar motif, all served to impress how magnificent the wearer was.
The empire may well be a shadow of its former glory, but the emperor was still looked upon with awe. He glanced sideways at his brother who was standing there with no expression on his face. What was he thinking? Was he thinking? He looked back up at his father.
“The time has come to assign you both new titles as befits your rank and position. Kastania’s future lies in your hands, both of you, and so I have pleasure in bestowing upon you new titles.”
He nodded to a courtier who passed two scrolls, sealed and adorned with red ribbons. They looked important. Argan’s heart began to beat faster in excitement. A title? A rank? Would he be able to use it in his letter writing? The only disappointment was that Fantor-Face was also going to have a title. Maybe his father was going to ennoble him Prince Fantor-Face of Eating. Argan suppressed a smirk; such was not allowed at this time.
“Prince Argan, as eldest of the two, you shall be given the title Prince of the West. In time you shall take up responsibility in one of the western provinces and govern from there. In the meantime you shall travel to Turslenka where you shall learn how to govern from Governor Olskan.”
Argan’s heart leaped. The West? Prince of the West? That sounded very important – but what of Jorqel? Argan suddenly realised Jorqel would be emperor next so his post would fall vacant, and so Argan would step into his place at that time. He bowed, happy at his new title.
“Prince Istan, your future will be here in the east, and so you shall remain here in Zofela and learn how to govern this province. You shall henceforth be known as Prince of the East.” Astiras handed the scrolls to Pepil who ostentatiously passed each to their intended recipient.
“Let this be noted and recorded in the imperial rolls,” Astiras boomed, looking around the chamber. The room burst out into applause, and even Isbel smiled, a faint sheen of water in her eyes. Argan smiled at her and Isbel’s lips trembled.
Istan looked extremely proud and smiled. It wasn’t a smile to comfort Argan.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vosgaris waited patiently in the waiting room of the town house of the Mirrodan family. Getting an appointment with them had been fairly easy, and with the emperor’s letter and Thetos’ backing, the family had assented to the visit. Vosgaris had been waiting for a few days but was at last pleased to be getting on with the investigation. Time was passing.
The room was nothing grand; it was a stone walled room with a few painted scenes upon it of water reeds, rivers and avians, not that expertly drawn either. The only door opened and a servant appeared. “The master will see you now, sir.”
Vosgaris grunted and followed him out across the stone passageway to the opposite room, a much more luxuriously decorated chamber. A rug covered the central portion and dark wood chairs stood scattered about. Tapestries of sea scenes hung from two of the walls, and there were delicate looking side tables arranged along the other walls.
Lord Mirrodan, if one could call the head of the family that, was stood waiting for him, a tall, sun-tanned man with white hair and with deep lines in his face. Weatherbeaten, Vosgaris labelled him immediately.
“Welcome, Captain, a pleasure I’m sure,” he said in a deep, rich voice. “What brings you to my humble abode on emperor’s business?”
Vosgaris sat in a chair indicated by Lord Mirrodan and settled comfortably. “My lord, Emperor Astiras Koros, had commanded me to investigate a matter of some delicacy, sire.”
Lord Mirrodan raised an eyeb
row and sat down himself, opposite Vosgaris. He looked up at the servant. “Spring water for me. Captain?” he asked, holding out an inquiring hand.
“Oh, ah, same for me please.” It would be best to maintain a clear head. “Yes, a delicate matter. Someone has been spreading malicious gossip about the emperor’s marital affairs.”
“Extra-marital, so I hear,” the head of the family said, his expression neutral.
“Ah, quite so, sire. May I ask when did you first hear of it?”
Lord Mirrodan shrugged and interlaced his fingers. “From memory, at the Council Meeting in Zofela when Lord Kanzet made quite a stir, I can assure you.”
Vosgaris nodded. He hadn’t heard but he thought it best he went along as if he had. “Did anyone speak to you of this matter other than in the usual manner? I mean did anyone appear to give the impression they knew more about it than they should?”
“Not really, and I’m not entirely sure I understand you fully, but I’ve not had any suspicions that someone knows more than they should. Are you saying someone has been spreading secrets about?”
“Sire, this matter was known to only a few people – a handful, and someone has been letting this secret out.” Vosgaris had prepared his position carefully in the past couple of days. “The emperor is concerned that if this person is prepared to spread this sort of secret about, then there may be other matters of state security that he or she could divulge. I wished to know whether you have had any approaches from anyone at all.”
“No. My son, as you know, works in the Court up at Zofela, and I spent some time with him. He didn’t speak of this matter, nor of any concerns he may have had. I’m sorry, Captain, but it appears I’m unable to help you in your enquiries.”
Vosgaris accepted the man’s words. The servant reappeared with the two drinks and they sipped for a moment. Vosgaris was impressed by the freshness and quality of the water.
“Collected from the mountains in southern Pelponia,” Lord Mirrodan explained. “One of our lucrative businesses.”
“How do you keep it so fresh, sire?”
“A secret, I’m afraid – we would not want to let our rivals know. You see, we Mirrodan do keep secrets, unlike, so it seems, whoever is responsible for this regrettable situation in which you are involved.”
Vosgaris finished his drink, gave his thanks to the nobleman and left. He was no nearer in finding out anything, and felt the time he had been waiting for an interview had been wasted. Astiras would not be pleased.
The next day he was due to ride out to the estates of the Anglis family, so perhaps he would fare better there. Back in his room in the governor’s house he went back over his interview. Governor Olskan hadn’t said Mirrodan had been up in Zofela. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop, then got up and went to the governor’s office.
Olskan was there, sipping on a hot cup of klee, Metila in attendance. She gave him one look and then ignored him. Put in my place, Vosgaris mused with some irony. “Governor,” he said, “when I first came here, you said Lord Anglis had been up in Zofela yet you didn’t say Lord Mirrodan had been. Can you confirm that?”
Thetos frowned, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting. “I’m fairly sure, but not absolutely. You’re due to meet Lord Anglis tomorrow, so why not ask him?”
“I will, thanks. I found out that Mirrodan and his family are in the spring water business. Do you know anything about that?”
“I think so – hey, witch,” he addressed Metila, curtly beckoning her to him. “You know of the Mirrodan water business?”
Metila strode over to him sensually and knelt, a half-smile on her face. “Papers will say.”
“Get them then, you slut.”
“I obey,” she said and rose to her feet. As she vanished into the back of the room where the records were stored, Vosgaris shook his head slowly.
Thetos raised an eyebrow. “Surprised at how submissive she is? Well, let me tell you, Captain, she is so only because she allows it – if treating her like that did not make her wish to remain with me, I’d not speak to her so. Bragalese women are very complex and are often misunderstood. They are not really the slaves – we men are.”
“That doesn’t look that way to me,” Vosgaris commented, cocking an ear to listen to Metila’s rummaging about. “By the way, don’t you have any clerks and paper shufflers here?”
“Metila is my clerk, Captain, and if I may speak freely with you, I don’t trust any of these idiotic people here to do a decent job.” Thetos quaffed some of his drink, slapped the mug down on the desk, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and nodded. “When I took over here the previous governor – may the gods rot his soul – had in his employ a dozen clerks, none of whom I’d trust to wipe their own arses properly. Besides, most of them were what they called administrators and didn’t actually do any work; they had one such to every clerk who did not only their own work but also that of their administrator.”
“That couldn’t have been efficient, Governor!”
“It wasn’t – and most were lazy no good rascals, too. Bleated on about working conditions and bonuses, so I got rid of the lot. Metila here did their job on her own and I found we didn’t need this room stuffed full of morons thinking up idiotic rules that did no good because they had too much free time on their hands.”
“But surely these documents are written by clerks?
“Oh yes,” Thetos waved his one hand in a carefree manner. “Young educated people wanting a career in the imperial administration, so I employ them to copy old shitty manuscripts that are rotting away, and to write out the new edicts I occasionally make, or those the emperor comes up with. I don’t often make new rules though.”
“Why is that?”
Thetos wagged a finger at the captain’s face. “Bad administrations make lot of rules and laws, it tells me that there’s a problem if they have need to do so. I’m not worried about using existing laws if I think they work or are good ones. Why change things if they work? Only idiots and egotists do that, young man.”
Vosgaris leaned back and thought on that. Metila returned with a small rolled-up piece of parchment. “Mirrodan family business,” she said and dropped it onto the governor’s desk.
Vosgaris eyed the label on the document. It was in two languages, Kastanian and one he recognised but didn’t understand. Bragalese. That would be for Metila’s benefit. He looked up, surprised.
“I can read,” she said, defiantly. “You think woman not read? Or Bragalese not read?”
“Oh, ah no, of course I don’t!” Vosgaris felt himself colour despite himself.
Metila looked at him with contempt. “You like many Kastanian men, you think you better.”
“No, Metila, really I don’t!” He felt upset, mostly because she had hit upon a truth, and it shamed him.
“You speak lie,” she said and stepped up to him, scowling.
“Metila,” Thetos said, mildly, “go easy on the poor man, he’s a guest.”
Metila made a disgusted noise and remained standing close to Vosgaris. She could be very intimidating, the captain thought to himself. She slid her knife out of her sheath that was strapped to her upper thigh and pointed it at Vosgaris’ face. “Men have died for speaking like that,” she growled.
“Metila, I’m very sorry,” Vosgaris spread his hands defensively, “what else can I say?”
“You weak,” she spat at him and slid the knife home.
Thetos slapped her rump hard and she squealed then swung round, a smile breaking out over her face. “Slut!” he barked, “I said go easy! Do as I command!”
“Yes, I obey,” she said in a husky voice and knelt at his feet. “You slap me again?”
“When he’s gone, yes, over my desk.”
“Mmmm, hurry him.”
“Silence!” Thetos snapped, then grinned at a wide-eyed Vosgaris. “This is why most Kastanians can’t keep a Bragalese woman – they’re very difficult to understand.”
“Aren’t all women?�
� Vosgaris asked, untying the parchment.
“Fair point,” Thetos conceded, “but you try to treat a Kastanian woman like this and you’ll end up in trouble, eh?”
The captain nodded and unrolled the parchment. It was, he noticed with relief, in classic Kastanian. The Mirrodan had three lines of business, the spring water sideline to Pelponia, plus two others – fishing in both Makenia and Pelponia, and woodworking, here in Turslenka. He looked up. “Woodworking?”
“Oh that,” Thetos grunted. “They make and sell furniture to the masses here. Nothing classy, its cheap rubbish but the people here can afford it, unlike the stuff that comes from the established makers.”
“Where do they get the wood from?”
“Bragal, possibly, but there’s also some trade filtering across from Epros and I think Pelponia has some of that stuff, too, but not a lot.”
Vosgaris resumed his perusal of the document. “All recently acquired stuff too – they seemed to have bought out their predecessors or moved in when a business failed. Lucky or what?”
“Some say that, others say they had inside knowledge.”
“Haven’t you investigated, Governor?”
“Investigated what, Captain? No complaints have been received, and they took over an ailing business and made it work. As far as I’m concerned that’s good news, helps keep the place moving along nicely and people happy. They have their shitty cheap furniture, I have my tax coming in, the petty nobility have their fresh water that puts their teeth on edge and the markets have plenty of fish to feed the city. Unless there’s a problem someone raises, there’s nothing to investigate.”
Vosgaris nodded and passed the document back to the governor. “The Anglis have different businesses. Marble being their main one.”
“True, so there’s no danger of the Mirrodan moving in on their patch, so to speak. The Anglis are far too rich and powerful for the Mirrodan, anyway.”
“Indeed.” Vosgaris stood up. “Thank you, Governor, and you, Metila,” he bowed to the woman who ignored him. “I’ll set off tomorrow morning to the Anglis estate.”
