by Tony Roberts
That took her mind to the next subject, the town’s organisation. Too many people were wanting to get a piece of the new-look town’s administration, the new town council, guilds, militia, or some entity that could make money out of the expected influx of people. Having the emperor and his Court in the town naturally attracted people and Zofela’s population was increasing, almost daily. That meant a quicker than expected building project, and short cuts were being made. Complaints were already reaching her about less than scrupulous people selling low grade material for high prices, building houses far too rapidly and shoddily, and selling them for a huge price.
Two of the richer merchants who had come to Zofela had pointed out the deficiencies to her and Isbel had tasked Fostan Anglis to look into the matter. When he had objected, pointing out that his position was that of political advisor, Isbel had bluntly informed him that there was little political advising to be done at the present time, and she did not wish for idle hands to be present in her Court. With so many away, people would just have to do tasks they were not necessarily used to.
Anglis had done as she had bid, but not without looking as if there was a bad smell under his nose. She had then rounded on Golten Mirrodan and told him to make himself useful rather than sitting about uselessly. Being the emperor’s biographer was no use to her, so she had told him, and she had set him the task of scribing down the list of complaints the townsfolk were making. She had no intention of turning Zofela into a hotbed of simmering dissent through inaction. She was not a Duras or Fokis.
Again, that brought her to another issue. Alenna. Alenna had been more than helpful over the past few days, and Isbel was wondering about the Duras girl’s usefulness. Could she forget she was a Duras and accept her in fact as being a fully-fledged member of her inner circle? To be sure, Alenna was much more preferable than the obsequious Pepil or the disapproving Frendicus. Every furim spent brought a frown of disgust from the taxman as if it were wrenched from his own pocket. Being good in collecting taxes was one thing; the whole point in getting taxes in was so they could be spent on improving the empire, not to gather in the vaults of Zofela castle and collect dust.
Alenna had tried her hardest to please the empress, or so it had seemed, but without the oily falseness of Pepil. Alenna really was good at gathering information from the ledgers, and when Isbel had asked about that, Alenna had admitted she had been doing that for her father’s household in Lodria. Tally lists held no fears for her, and she had already identified some financial abuses that had been missed by the previous clerks during the build of Zofela’s stone walls and castle. Some people had received more in payments than the value of what they had delivered, so Isbel was going to have a word with Frendicus and his staff about that. Most of the abuses had come from the stone deliveries, including the Anglis shipments. She wondered just how much this had been missed due to Fostan Anglis being in the Court.
There was another Council session due shortly to discuss the budget for the coming half year. There were new projects that required approval, subject to the affordability and practicality of what was being asked. Astiras had waved away Isbel’s approaches to him about them, saying she was perfectly capable of choosing which was needed and which was not. There were the usual calls to build up the army, provide barracks, make more weapons, get them trained up and so on, and then there were others who wanted more roads, ports, land cleared to grow more crops or graze beasts.
She sighed. The more land the empire had regained the more requests had come in, or so it seemed. Lodria, Bragal and Romos were slowly being built up to mirror the other provinces but it always took time and money. Luckily the treasury was looking reasonably healthy but that was due to some hard decisions which had pleased few. There were still rumblings of dissent and the worry was that a new rebellion would break out somewhere. The borderlands of the west was one such area, and Jorqel had written to her warning of the Duras link to the lawlessness of that region.
Makenia was still a worry, despite the previous uprisings being dealt with, and there were one or two whispers about people not being satisfied with the rule of the Koros. She suspected that was down to agents of the Fokis and Duras stirring up those who had little, appealing to them with promises that under their rule they would have more. And then there was the matter of Dragan Purfin, the latest rebel leader who had escaped into hiding. Where was he? What was he planning?
She then jumped her thoughts to Amne. That girl was nothing but trouble, even with two children she was still a headache. What was the matter with her? Elas had made it perfectly clear he was not happy with her role in betraying the rebel leader. What was to become of their marriage? Somehow she had to reach out and get through to the headstrong Amne, but with little help from Astiras, there was only so much she could do. Perhaps Lalaas could speak to her. She would write to him.
And what then to do with Istan? He had become quite insufferable of late with his new title, declaring he was Prince of Zofela – not quite accurate – which could upset the Bragalese, let alone anyone else. He was assuming more and more an air of owning the province, yet without any foundation or justification. Isbel would have to slap him down, figuratively.
Her thoughts then drifted to Argan. What would he do now he was being tutored to become a governor? Hopefully he would become more serious and less frivolous on all matters. Isbel did wonder at his silly giggling to himself at times, it was most inappropriate and unbecoming. Would he mature sufficiently to be the next Koros general and governor? She knew he was earmarked to go to the west, but wanted badly to see him again. She fretted that she would never do so again.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the door being wrenched open and the breathless figure of Lieutenant Bevil. “Your highness,” he breathed, “something terrible has happened!”
Isbel stood up. Something sank inside her. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“It’s Miss Alenna – someone’s poisoned her!”
Isbel took off after the temporary guard commander without a moment’s hesitation. She went straight to Alenna’s room which had the door wide open and a couple of guards standing in the doorway. They stepped aside to allow Bevil and Isbel in. Lying on the floor, spread in careless abandon, lay the unseeing Alenna, her face blackened. The expression of pure terror and pain on her face evident of the way she had died. By her bedside was a small table and upon this stood a bottle and cup.
“Get the contents of that bottle examined by the apothecary,” Isbel snapped. She knelt by the corpse of Alenna, slowly shaking her head side to side. Why? Why had this woman been targeted? “How long ago was she found?”
“A few moments only, ma’am,” Bevil said in anguish. “A guard thought he heard a cry and a fall and called out – he heard nothing, so looked in – and found her like this.”
“Fast acting poison,” Isbel commented. “Expensive. Who gave her this drink?”
“I don’t know ma’am, but I’ll investigate.”
“Do that. Spare nobody. My full authority, understand?”
Bevil snapped to attention and left. The two guards remained in the doorway. Isbel looked up at them. “Shut this door and allow nobody in unless I give my authority. Nobody is allowed in, no matter who they are.”
She left, full of recriminations. Someone here was acting against the interests of everyone, so it seemed, and the sooner they were found the better. What next, she wondered?
____
The new morning in Turslenka brought trouble. Astiras was preparing to leave the city after a breakfast and say his farewell to Argan when news came of a disturbance in the square outside the residence. Thetos, also present, demanded of the guard who had come bursting into the dining chamber what was the meaning of the intrusion.
“Sire, a crowd is gathering outside calling out insults to the Emperor!”
“Wha-at?” Thetos stood up, his face darkening. Astiras wasn’t far behind in getting to his feet, his expression equally severe. “Explain, man!�
�
“Sire,” the guard bowed nervously. “They are chanting out accusations that you, sire,” he bowed to Astiras, “and Metila are – intimate at this precise moment.”
“Are they, by Kastan?” Astiras growled.
“I wondered when this would happen,” Thetos said gloomily. “Given the vicious rumours spread by our unlovely enemies. It had to come to this – once word was spread in the streets and you, sire, were here.”
“They damned well will stop this right now,” Astiras said, striding for the door. “Landec,” he called to his chief bodyguard, “turn out the bodyguard, now.”
Thetos followed worriedly, tugging on his beard. Argan went out, too, Kerrin in hot pursuit. “Father,” Argan said, catching up the emperor.
Astiras turned slowly and faced the boy, and as he did so he idly noted that Argan was now as tall as his shoulders. “Yes, Argan?”
Argan looked beyond his father. The day was bright and he could see the stone platform that the entrance rested on, and beyond that the steps that descended to street level. The railings and gates then stood to protect those within the residence, and beyond that was the square. It was full of people, a throng of chanting citizens demanding something – it wasn’t quite clear to him what. “Why did you – love – Metila?”
Astiras stared at his son for a moment and Argan thought he had said something he ought not to have, then the emperor’s face changed. It almost seemed to Argan to sink and suddenly he looked much older. “I don’t know, boy, I don’t know what came over me; I really wish I had not – its caused your mother so much anguish and trouble,” he turned to look at the chanting gathering, all calling out names to him and Metila. “Now it’s given our enemies an opportunity to use these people against us.”
“Do you still want to be with her?”
“No, Argan,” Astiras said heavily, “the distance between your mother and I has made me see what I value the most. Metila is a witch, and it may well be she put a spell on me, but it was for reasons best known to herself.” He frowned. The child she had from him may well turn out to be another, much bigger, problem in the future, but for now he had to deal with the immediate issue. “In our culture it is not permitted to have more than one woman, but in Bragal it is. That is the cause of the trouble. Bragalese women are very exciting to men, but they are also very very dangerous.”
“How so? Do they hurt?”
Astiras smiled tiredly. “In some ways yes, although not yet in a way you could understand.”
“Grown-up stuff,” Argan commented, almost to himself.
“Yes, grown-up stuff. Now let me try to sort this mess out, since it was I who caused it.” He strode off to the top of the steps where Thetos and Landec were already waiting with two of the Turslenkan militia captains. Argan exchanged glances with Kerrin, then waved him to follow him to the steps.
The crowd was shouting, baying and calling out insults. Every time one of the men at the top of the stairs tried to speak, the noise rose to drown it out. Objects began flying over the railings, pelting the guards. Rotten vegetables, piscines, even some stones. “Whore,” Argan heard the word most of all. There were others. “Witch, burn her,” was another shout which scared him. Burn Metila?
A priest came up to the central dais in the square, a solemn man with black robes and a tall soft hat. A silver symbol of a piscine dangled from a chain round his neck, and Argan remembered that the sea god Tenprec was worshipped here most of all.
“Oh, that’s Cleric Ganot, one of Burnas’ cronies,” Thetos muttered to Astiras. “Quite outspoken.”
“That’s all I need.” Astiras frowned. He’d hoped with the arrest of the leaders of the conspiracy against him the previous night this sort of thing could have been avoided, but it seemed he’d been too late.
Cleric Ganot was white bearded and had a long hooked nose and a serious look to him. He stood above the level of the crowd and raised both arms. The crowd grew silent, anticipating some kind of oratory directed against the emperor.
Astiras turned to Thetos. “So what can be done to silence that cleric?”
Thetos looked alarmed. “Sire – you can’t be thinking of….”
“Oh no, Thetos, not that! I mean a bribe – a sweetener. He’s a priest; they normally can be bought off.”
“Weeeeell,” Thetos scratched his cheek with his claw. “He would like a temple built – Turslenka has not had a new one for a long time and the ones we do have are in generally poor condition. Funding dried up under the latter emperors as you know and from what I hear the temples were not well served by their own people. It seemed avarice was endemic; everyone was busy filling their own pouches with coins at the time.”
“So I recall. Very well, go fetch the man; I shall give him a temple. I don’t want a riot here now!”
Thetos beckoned two of the captains to accompany him, and the militia opened the gates and pushed their way out, pressing the crowd back with their spears. The people grumbled and the hubbub attracted Ganot’s attention before he had really got into his stride. He frowned at the sight of the governor approaching. What did the man want? He normally refused to admit the existence of the temple!
Argan looked up at his father. “Are you really going to give him a temple, father?”
“Yes, Argan. Important rule to learn. If you want to avoid a riot and civil strife, then you may well have to give in on a minor point to one of influence. That priest may well have started trouble so it’s best to stop it before it begins. He wants a temple, then I give it to him.”
“Why not give it to him before?”
Astiras chuckled. “Why, then people would expect gifts all the time, and it would be far more expensive – and also you would not be able to bribe someone so easily.”
“Bribe?”
The emperor sighed. “Bribery is not a good thing, but necessary – it means paying someone in money or a gift to make them like you or just to support you. Everyone has a price, Argan, you just have to find out what it is.”
Argan frowned. That was not something he was comfortable with. He did not think that he could be bought for anything! That was something for people who were not strong of heart or good.
His father saw his expression and clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, I can see you’re not happy with that, and that’s a good thing. However, remember that there are many people here who can be bought with a gift, or money, or something, and these will normally be people who would oppose us.” He broke off as Thetos and Ganot came through the gateway, the guards pushing the crowd back. The mood was angry and Argan wondered whether they would listen to the emperor.
Kerrin stood one step down and Argan joined him. “Frightening, isn’t it?” Kerrin said, his eyes roaming over the sea of heads. “I’ve never seen anything like this!”
“We must not show we are scared, ‘Rin. We are of the House of Koros, and are their rulers. If we’re scared of them then they will not look at us with respect.”
Kerrin looked at his friend. “But aren’t you scared?”
Argan nodded briefly. “But I’m not allowed to be, don’t you see? I’m a Prince of Koros.”
Kerrin looked back at the mob who were once again shouting out invectives against the emperor and the witch. Cries of ‘burn her’ were beginning to echo around the square. Argan’s lips tightened. Nobody was going to hurt Metila as long as he had anything to do with it! He turned and saw his father, the governor and the priest grouped together talking earnestly. Whatever they were saying was masked by the noise washing over him from the crowd.
“C’mon, ‘Rin, the grown-ups aren’t doing anything about this mob!”
“What? ‘Gan, are you mad?” Kerrin forgot to honour Argan with his title in his surprise as Argan went down the steps to the forecourt. He stumbled after his friend, knowing he had to stay by his side, but terrified at getting closer to the mass of people.
A junior officer stepped forward, his face registering concern. “Your highness –
it’s too dangerous to go any further!”
Argan stopped the officer with an upraised hand. “Please, I am to speak to the people. They will not harm me. Open the gates. I order it.”
The officer looked up for help but nobody was taking notice. With a trembling dread, he stepped back and nodded to the stone-faced guards. Two of them reluctantly unlocked them and Argan strode past, his head high and back straight. Kerrin followed close behind, trying not to wet himself.
The people directly outside the gates stopped shouting and stared in surprise at the sight of the two youngsters emerging. Argan had his eyes firmly on the raised central stand in the middle of the square. That was where he was going.
Like a tide receding the people peeled back, transfixed by the sight of the two boys walking calmly and quietly through them. As they passed, the crowd closed again so that the guards trying to follow were blocked and struggled to no avail. Argan and Kerrin were on their own.
Argan was pleased to reach the steps that led up to the raised dais and turned to face the mass of faces staring up at him. He raised both arms in the air, and the whole square fell silent.
Astiras stopped talking as something tugged at the corners of his mind. The junior officer came racing up the steps and bowed fearfully. “Sire – your son…..”
Astiras pushed him aside and stared in disbelief at the tableau before him. “What the….” the last word was utterly unrepeatable.
Argan, meanwhile, had the people waiting to hear what he was about to say. He knew he had to say something important and truthful. “People of Turslenka,” he began, trying to project his voice as far as he could. “I am Prince Argan of the House of Koros.” Kerrin stood by his side looking for any sign of trouble. He wished he had a sword, although what good that would do if they decided to rush them he had no idea. “What you say has truth in it, yes my father has been with Metila.”
