Empire of Avarice (62 page)

The two soldiers nodded. It was unthinkable that their
enemy should strike with such impunity. The Tybar had over the past fifteen
years enjoyed a run of successes against their weaker neighbours without any
reverses, and they were now of the belief that Kastania could not put up any
resistance. It had been a shock.

____

A few stadia’s distance away, in a narrow gorge, Gavan
dismounted and chuckled. That had gone better than he’d hoped. All of them had
got away, stolen twelve animals, killed a load of the hated Tybar, and now were
in possession of the two main weapons the tribesmen had; their nimble steeds
and their small bow. A couple of their weapons had been picked up and were
being examined by the curious Kastanians.

The four archers were scrambling down the hillside,
angling across the slope, sending showers of small stones rattling down into
the gorge. Four equines were set aside for them, and the archers soon got up
onto their new steeds. All but Gavan and one other, the scout, had one more
beast in tow. “Come on,” Gavan said, “let’s go before we get a swarm of angry
Tybar buzzing about our ears.”

They clattered off down the gorge, heading east and
their destination, Lodria, and eventually Slenna and Prince Jorqel.

____

Four days later a senior tribesman stood on the road
leading to Kastania. The captain, chastened and in a slave collar, knelt by his
side. The captain had been permitted to live but would, as punishment for
allowing the puny Kastanians to succeed, serve out the rest of his days as a
slave.

The new men and officers of the outpost were already
there, lined up in two neat rows, their beasts in their hands. This time there
would be forty of them. Slaves were already working on a second blockhouse and
stables. These were new slaves, brought from Imakum. Many had been in rich
families who had lost their freedom, wealth and possessions when the city had
fallen.

The senior tribesman, a veteran general in the service
of the Governor of Imakum, scowled down at the former captain. “Fool of a man,”
he said with scorn. “You have given the weaklings hope they can defeat us. At
the worst possible time, too! Our main field army is in the process of bringing
Taboz into our possession. There is no army to defend this region. If they
learn of our vulnerability they may attack instead of being willing to sign a
treaty. I trust our diplomat gets to Kastan City before the news of their
success here does. If the treaty is not signed your head will be mounted on the
west gate of Imakum, mark my words.”

“Yes, honoured sir,” the ex-captain said softly. The
shame and dishonour was entirely his. His fall from grace was complete, and he
could expect no mercy from his new master.

The sound of hoof beats cut through the conversation and
all heads turned to the right where a small group of mounted men came into
view, their equines blowing hard, nostrils flared, sweat streaking their
flanks. They came to a halt near the governor and their leader, a stocky
bearded hard-bitten man, dismounted and made his obeisance to his superior. The
governor gave permission for the man to raise his face from the dirt and make
his report. The man remained on his belly, such was his lowly status, and the
governor would have had his head removed if he dared get up before permission
had been given.

“Honoured sir, I beg to report that we followed the
weaklings’ route east to their border.”

“What border?” the governor asked, his voice dangerously
low with menace. “The proper border or that which the weaklings insist is
theirs?”

“The proper border, honoured sir. They had turned
north-east.”

The governor bared his teeth. “Ah – they make their way
to Slenna and the nest of that kivok Prince Jorqel. So it is he who is
responsible. We shall ensure he is given a message fitting to such a thief and
coward.” He looked down at his slave. “I shall adopt your idea, slave. You may
be comforted that this idea is the main reason I’m permitting you to live.”

“Thank you, honoured master.”

The governor nodded. He clicked his fingers and a
soldier came struggling forward, holding a stout looking gold leafed chair. A
trophy from the sack of Imakum. The governor sat comfortably in the chair,
easing his buttocks into the plush velvet upholstery. “Slave – be my
footstool.”

The ex-captain crawled forward and curled himself at his
master’s feet. The governor placed both booted feet on the back of the slave
and relaxed. “Wine!” he boomed.

Another soldier stepped forward, a curiously shaped
goblet in his hand. The stand was of silver inlaid with gems, but the cup was
of bone and gems placed in particular places. Another soldier poured the
sparkling red liquid of the local wine into the goblet. The governor raised the
goblet and regarded it critically in the sunlight. “You know, slave, this
goblet was made specifically for me from the skull of the former weakling
governor of Imakum after I took it from him. The fool expected me to reward him
for surrendering the city. What fate does a traitor and corrupt man expect from
a nation of warriors? If he stabbed his own people in the back, then it stands
true that he would stab others just as easily. Truly, not a man to trust.”

As the governor took a deep draught from the goblet,
swallowing noisily, the ex-captain closed his eyes and tried not to think that
his fate could so easily have been the same.

A servant held a cloth close to the governor’s mouth. A
soldier stood close by, his sword bared and ready to strike if the servant
tried anything stupid. The servant, a former senior legal expert in Imakum, was
too frightened to think of doing anything so ridiculous. The governor wiped his
mouth and patted his stomach gently. “I shall make a similar goblet from the
skull of that so-called Prince Jorqel. It shall take pride of place in my
palace. I shall take whatever wife he has for my own concubine and use her as I
see fit. I shall force him to watch as she serves me. Only then shall I permit
him to have his head separated from his body.”

His men nodded. It was only right that the enemy royal
family should see their destruction and humiliation before their death. The
governor would not be permitted to kill the emperor. Only the Chieftain of the
Tribes could do that. It was clear that once the Tybar had taken Taboz, then
their army would return to Kaprenia and seek to renew their advance on
Kastanian territory. The only issue was which direction to go. They would face
two fronts; Slenna and Niake, and if they turned against one, they would offer
their flank to the other. Spies would have to be sent to both locations to work
on undermining the morale and resistance of the weaklings so that when the time
was ripe, they could advance on either without worrying about their flank.

In the meantime he would work personally at improving
the frontier outposts so that another such incident as this would never happen
again. Then they could sent raiding parties into Bathenia and Lodria with the
dual purpose of scouting out the terrain and to take slaves. The land would be
put to the sword and de-populated. And another province would fall to the
united tribes.

The thought warmed his heart.

The throne room in the palace of Kastan City was packed.
Emperor Astiras I Koros was seated on the central throne, flanked to his right
by the empress, Isbel, and to his left by the diminutive figure of seven year
old Argan, looking almost lost in the seat designed to fit an adult. Standing
to left and right of each seat was a member of Vosgaris’ Palace Guard, dressed
in much more impressive white and blue livery with purple and gold thread
interwoven in designs of the Koros family and the imperial insignia of two
circles linked by a rod.

Astiras had the Crown of Kastan atop his greying and
thinning hair. It was a sign of his ageing, but his eyes remained clear and
stern, fixing the lone figure knelt on the bottom step of the dais. His sword
was bared, the tip resting on the cool marble of the dais floor, the ornate
hilt and pommel firmly clutched in his right hand. His dress was of the richest
tunic and skirt available to the emperor. It was his ceremonial imperial
outfit, and only used on important occasions.

Isbel was similarly dressed. She had a one-piece blue
and gold dress, gathered in at the waist, with sleeves that ran to her wrists. The
gold weave was in large ovals, entwining themselves down the dress to the
floor. Only her ankles would show when she stood, and that would reveal her
pale gold coloured slippers. Her dress was buttoned up to her neck, with a high
collar. Her hair was curled and gathered at the back, and tumbled down to her
shoulder blades.

Her face was powdered lightly with gold dust and her
skin had been smeared with a white cream so that the gold would stand out. Her
lips had been treated with a red dye found in petals of certain flowers that
grew in Frasia, and a little had also been applied to her cheeks. Astiras, on
seeing her emerge from her dressing room, had been hard put not to drag her off
to their bedroom. As it was, he was itching to finish this meeting with Kijimur
the Tybar diplomat. Damn the man and his flowery words; get down to signing the
trade agreement, then he could dismiss the foreigner and ravage his wife to
senselessness.

Argan was petrified. All those eyes staring up at him. He
was sure a few were giggling at him lost in the huge chair. He’d never been in
such a huge one before. Were adults really this big? The chair was surely for
giants. He’d never grow up enough to fit this. It made him sad. He did want to
be a prince but did it mean having to face all these people all the time? His
father seemed to enjoy it. He made it look so easy. He wasn’t sure whether he
could be so happy at being emperor.

His hands were shaking but he didn’t want anyone to see
them so he stuck them on his lap and he contented himself in with looking down
at the Tybar diplomat. He looked very small down there, kneeling on the bottom
step, his funny tall cap on his dark head, and his thin nose sticking out over
that very funny looking lot of hair on his upper lip. What was it called? Mouse-tach
or something like that. It didn’t look like a mouse. More like a furry worm. Why
anyone would like to grow their hair that looks like a furry worm near their
mouth was beyond him.

His father had told him that it was time he saw what
went on in the throne room, and that it would be a good lesson for him. He was
to keep quiet unless spoken to directly. His father had been very insistent on
that. Argan had stood before his father that morning, very upright and serious
looking. “Of course, father,” Argan had said. It was a big step for him, so
he’d been informed, and so it was important he didn’t let his father or his
mother down.

Isbel had briefly squeezed Argan’s hand as they had
filed out into the immense chamber, and Argan’s legs had almost turned to water
when he caught sight of the sea of faces. The light and the hushed ambience of
the room had awed him. Isbel had guessed Argan was overawed and she’d gently
tapped him on the shoulder and smiled as his white face, his eyes impossibly
wide. She’d almost picked him up and hugged him, but decorum dictated that she
must not. Argan must be allowed to find his own feet.

So there he was, his legs hanging in thin air, his feet
dangling a good adult’s foot length from the floor. He was perched far forward
in the chair, somewhat uncomfortably, and he felt a little exposed and on his
own. Vosgaris was not near him; he was next to his father, as the Captain of
the Palace Guard should be, but two of his guards were alongside him, standing
there in their new uniforms, holding the big long Volgars upright. Argan could
see the one on his left very clearly. It was glistening slightly. He wondered
why that was so. Weapons of steel did not usually glisten. Was it wet? Maybe it
sweated. Did volgars sweat? He’d have to ask Vosgaris. Vosgaris was a good man;
he never laughed at him the way some people did when he asked questions.

He didn’t know why mother disliked Vosgaris. He thought
the Captain of the Guard was the best ever. He’d protect them just like
Teduskis did father.

His thoughts were interrupted by Kijimur stepping back
and holding out a rolled up parchment, fixed by a particularly bright red
ribbon. Argan stared at the ribbon. He’d never seen such a bright colour
before. It was fascinating. “Your majesty, the Chieftain of the United Tribes
of Tybar agrees to a trade treaty with the great Kastanian Empire.” His teeth
flashed in a wide smile that Argan somehow found unsettling. “With no payment
of tribute.”

The hall broke out into a buzz of surprise, and some
applause. Kijimur smiled again, his eyes shifting to the right, his head turned
slightly towards the audience. Then he was all seriousness again.

A court attendant took the parchment and walked up the
steps to Pepil who took it with a gravity the situation merited, and he in turn
passed it to Astiras, bowing low.

“Read it for us, Major-Domo,” Astiras said, looking at
Kijimur.

Silence descended on the chamber as Pepil opened the
parchment and scanned the black marks squiggled across the yellowed surface. “It
is sealed with the Imperial Arms of Imakum,” Pepil said.

A ripple of noise rolled across the people in the
chamber and Astiras’ face darkened for a moment. “Continue,” the emperor said
brusquely. Kijimur had a half-smile on his lips. The insult was clear and
deliberate.

Pepil took a deep breath. “The Chieftain of the Glorious
Tribes of Tybar allows the freedom of trade between our two realms. Merchant
posts will be set up in Niake and Imakum to process the buying and selling of
goods from each territory. The price will be set and agreed upon each winter
and last for a period of one full year. No tariffs above that of one quarter
may be set without the authority of both emperor and chieftain. This does not
affect the prohibition of military units on each other’s territory.”

Astiras’ fingers played with the pommel of his sword. He
stared hard at the Tybar diplomat. It was a simple treaty, but one couched with
insults to Kastania. If he had a strong army he’d cross the border and put the
Tybar to the sword, taking back Imakum for the empire. But he didn’t and
Kastania needed peace on its borders for now. Mazag, Tybar, Venn. Three
neighbours he needed peace with until he sorted out Bragal, the internal
dissenters and built up a viable structure and retained a decent army.

“Agreed,” Astiras said gravely. “Congratulations,
Kijimur,” he said amidst a burst of noise. “You have your treaty.”

Kijimur smiled and bowed slowly. He was elated. He would
be rewarded by his master. No matter the treaty was merely a temporary sop to
these weaklings. The insult to them had been swallowed, as he knew it would be.
It showed how weak they were. He had persuaded his master to seal the document
thus. The Chieftain had expressed doubts that the insult would be taken, but
Kijimur had explained the Kastanian weakness and the fact their army, small and
untrained, was locked in a struggle in Bragal.

The Tybar army was also involved in a campaign elsewhere
so both needed a treaty for the moment to keep their mutual border peaceful
while other matters were sorted out. Once this was done, then the Tybar army
could return to Imakum where a campaign would be planned to take the remaining
lands of Kastan. The needs of the Tybar people were great; they had to keep
moving east.

A few in the chamber were not pleased. A man stepped out
onto the red carpet in the middle of the chamber. “This is a disgrace!”

Kijimur spun round, his face bristling. Astiras stood
up, holding his sword tight. Isbel put her hand to her mouth in horror. The
room erupted into a babble of sounds.

“Silence!” Astiras roared. He got his wish. He fixed the
defiant figure standing in the chamber. “Vitlis Duras. How nice to see you – at
last.”

The man, a lean, wrinkled individual with a scar across
his forehead and cheek, sneered. “Let’s not fool ourselves or anyone, Astiras
Koros. I claim Counsel.”

Astiras stepped down the dais, flanked by Vosgaris and
two guards. None was holding their weapons in a friendly manner. Kijimur
scuttled aside. Argan stared goggle-eyed at the tableau unfolding before him. “You
dare claim this here and now?” Astiras hissed.

“You know the tradition, Koros. Not even an emperor can
change that!”

Astiras growled. “Very well. But you cannot change an
edict from an emperor, and I have just agreed on the treaty.”

“Counsel can veto an edict. Do you forget the traditions
of our empire so easily, Koros? Are you such a tyrant that the wishes of the
people mean nothing to you?”

“Who speaks of tyranny, Duras?” Astiras snarled. “When
your family is a by-word for such?”

Vitlis Duras scowled. “Do I get Counsel, or have you
abolished it?”

“Yes! Now hold your tongue until Counsel is in session.”

“All the Council is to sit, not just your sycophants and
creatures,” Duras said. “And we will discuss your cowardly treaty and how it is
to be dismissed.”

Astiras whirled, his face red. “Call Counsel!” he barked
to Pepil. He glanced at Kijimur. “Return to your quarters, diplomat. I shall bring
you news of this Counsel in due course.”

Kijimur bowed, a worried look on his face. He had little
knowledge of what was going on, but it was something unexpected. Time would
tell whether his treaty that he’d worked hard at would come to fruition, and
whether he could return to his master in triumph, or flee eastwards and hope to
take up service elsewhere.

Astiras jabbed a finger at Vosgaris. “Guards at the
Council Chamber now!” He looked at Argan. “Well, young man, I think you should
come with us to the chamber and see how traitors speak. You will sit next to
me.” He held out his hand to Isbel. “After you, Empress.”

Argan clambered down out of his chair awkwardly, and
trotted up to his mother. His father whispered not to run, but to walk. He
nodded and slowed and made his way alongside his mother, looking up at her for
approval. She smiled once, then composed herself. Argan’s heart was beating
faster. The Council Chamber! He’d heard lots about it, but had never been
allowed there ever! Oh how exciting!

The procession of men and the empress filed down the marbled
corridor, passing volgar-armed guards at regular intervals. They turned two
corners and then they were there, the door on the right opening into a cool
stone chamber which Argan found went down four steps, rather surprisingly. Huge
stone pillars held up the ceiling, and oil lamps and candles lit the windowless
room. This, here, was the heart of Kastania. Here was the empire’s fountain. Everything
came from here. A huge table stood before him, crowded with chairs. Argan
wordlessly followed his mother. Isbel stopped and stood before a high-backed
chair. “Argan, this is your seat. Wait until Captain Vosgaris brings your
cushion.”

She sat in the chair two back, while his father pulled
back the chair next to him and went to sit down. He looked down at the
wide-eyed Argan and winked. “Wait till you see the table top, young prince,” he
said softly, then was all seriousness again, facing the assembling host. Argan
felt reassured. His father had been kind to him and it made him feel so much
better. He wished he was more friendly to him more often. He so badly wanted
his father to show him he loved him. He was a little scared of him; he was so
big and noisy and shouted a lot – even when he was happy. It was scary when he
was loud.

Vosgaris gravely brought the thick velvet cushion in and
placed it on the chair seat, then held the chair out for Argan to climb up. “Hold
on, young prince,” Vosgaris said quietly and eased the chair forward so Argan
was safely tucked in.

Argan was goggle-eyed. Here was the wonder of wonders
spreading out before him. A map! A map carved out of the very table itself. It
was squiggly and bumpy and had round bits where places were. Words were written
across it in a fantastic swirly script and he craned his neck to see what they
said. The words were facing him, luckily. Or maybe not luckily. Father would
not want to read them upside down. “Alm…..” he began almost to himself, but his
father heard him. “Almania,” Astiras said, a smile on his lips. “A far away
kingdom full of fierce warriors on mounts with huge flags.”

“Oh!” Argan was wonderstruck. There were hundreds of
places, towns, cities, and rivers. Mountains too, and he was especially
delighted to see little trees in some places. He tried to follow one squiggly
river but it went too far across the table. It was a massive map! “Where are
we, father?”