Prince of Wrath (56 page)

“What does he expect me to do about that? I have few farm hands now, thanks to your Duke taking every young man for militia duty in that damned fort!”

“Every able-bodied man is required to serve in the militia,” the militia captain said testily, “you know that! It is the law. We are not responsible for your laziness or tardiness. Tomorrow morning you will harvest your crops and set aside one half for the Duke.”

“One half!” the farmer shrieked, outraged, “that will leave precious little for me to sell!”

“Sell, to whom?” the captain asked silkily. “The Duke requires one half from anyone who does not meet the deadline, and yours expired yesterday. If you do not meet tomorrow’s deadline, then we shall return and harvest it ourselves and take everything. The choice is yours, fool. Think of your family and not of your pockets; do you want to explain to your wife and children that they have no food because you were greedy? Now spare me any more excuses and get your lazy arse moving or we’ll take everything.”

The militia group turned away and began marching down the road that led away from the house, leaving the farmer standing in the doorway, fuming, his fists clenched uselessly to his side.

Kiros waited until the militia had gone out of sight, then stood up. The farmer was still looking at the darkness into which the men had gone, then leaned forward and screamed in frustration. “Bastards!”

“That won’t help,” Kiros said, now sitting up on the barrel lid.

The farmer started in fright, then realised that Kiros was not one of the militiamen. “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Listening in on our wonderful Duke’s demands. It must be a reassurance that you’re living under such a benign overlord.”

“Oh, cut out your sarcasm, Kiros, I’ve not got the mood for it! Are you here for any useful and practical purpose, or are you here to gloat over my misfortune? If that’s the case you can get lost!”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Kiros said lightly, his legs swinging. “I’m offering my services to help cut down that crop. If you want it, that is. If you want to insult me then I’ll be on my way.”

The farmer stepped forward, the light from the doorway throwing half his face into shadow. “You’re not pulling my leg are you? You’re serious?”

Kiros shrugged. “I said I’m offering, and I keep my promises. I hate to see those vermin exploit good hard working farmers. They haven’t the sense to see that alienating the people who provide the food for their little kingdom will end up hurting everyone.”

The farmer grunted. “Hmm… knowing you as well as I do, this will be for some form of favour or other.”

“Most certainly,” Kiros agreed, smiling infuriatingly, “but you have no choice, do you? I’m here, so you’d be stupid to turn the offer down.”

The farmer grumbled. “Very well, as you say, I have no choice. But the gods help me if you ask for something too much in return I’ll have to refuse.”

“You don’t know what it is yet, so don’t go jumping before you look.” Kiros heaved himself off the barrel and stood before the farmer. He offered his hand and, after a moment’s pause, the farmer reluctantly took hold of it and they shook in the manner of the Kastanians, hands on forearms.

___

Thetos eyed Metila suspiciously. “You’re getting fat,” he accused his slave.

Metila ran her hands down her stomach. There was indeed a bulge. “I eat. I hungry.”

Thetos pulled a face. “You’ve been eating like a fantor these past few days. What’s the matter with you?”

Metila smiled and walked away, swaying her hips provocatively. “You no like?”

“I like my women slim. If I wanted a porcine I’d keep one in the corridor!”

“You like mating with porcines? Kastanians odd.”

“No I don’t, you whore!” Thetos roared, enraged. “Stop eating for three, and exercise that fat off! I command you, witch!”

“You command, I no obey,” Metila stuck her face into Thetos’. “You fat yourself, look in reflector. Think I like mounting that?”

“Why, you disrespectful slut!” Thetos shouted and swung his hand in a full-bloodied slap that sent Metila to the floor. She lay there for a few moments, her head ringing, before sitting up, blood trickling down her chin from the cut on her lips. Thetos stood over her, his face red with anger. “What is the matter with you? Have you gone mad?”

Metila looked up at her master. “I sorry, master, I forget myself.”

Thetos frowned, then nodded curtly. “Remember your place, witch. Now get me a cup of klee.”

Metila got to her feet, licking the blood from her lips. “I get,” she said demurely, head bowed, and silently left the room. Once in the corridor, her back to the two guards who stood outside the chamber, she smiled to herself. She had set up perfectly the reason to abandon Thetos and Turslenka.

The rest of that day she went about her duties automatically, saying little. The growing baby in her womb was on her mind now, and the need for her to go to Bragal and give birth to it. Thetos would not be pleased if he realised she was carrying Astiras’ bastard, so she had to get away now before people recognised she was pregnant.

The evening meal she knelt by Thetos’ feet, head bowed. If Thetos was concerned at her silence he made no sign that he was, and ate and drank as normal. Metila hadn’t eaten; she was not hungry. The herbs and potions she had consumed earlier had made sure of that, and now she looked up as Thetos’ head hit the table, the potion in his meal having taken effect. Leaving the sleeping man, she placed the note she’d written earlier on the table next to his head and left, picking up her few belongings from her room.

It was mid-autumn now and the nights were getting colder. Her journey would be long and laborious, so she needed proper protection for the outside elements. Her pack contained sleeping equipment, dried potions, a small pot, a spoon, a dagger, a fur coat and a fur hat. The guards outside noted her making her way down to the kitchens but said nothing; they were, after all, used to seeing her go that way with a variety of items, so a large bag over her shoulder didn’t raise any questions in their minds. Metila deliberately chose her route so as to not raise any suspicions. By the time Thetos came round she would be far away.

The kitchens were nearly deserted, save for two cooks washing up and putting things away. They called out a greeting to the woman who responded, but she had no time that evening for small talk. The far end of the kitchen opened via a small door to a courtyard and on the other side of that were the stables.

One small equine was Metila’s target. It wasn’t her’s but she was going to take it anyway. Her pack was slung behind the saddle she placed on its back, then fitted a small bridle and led the beast out of the stable. She went round a corner and walked up to the gates. Guards patrolled the area but she waited for a moment, until the nearest guard turned his back before sliding the bolt back and leading the animal out. She pushed the gate back, hoping it didn’t leave a gap that could be noticed. The guard was bored and plodded around the courtyard not really noticing the small sounds.

In the street Metila mounted up and guided the equine down towards the closed gate, now wearing a night cloak with hood. She had sneakily used one of Thetos’ parchments earlier that day to write a pass and sealed it with his gold signet ring, and now produced it to the suspicious guard. The man scanned it in the torchlight, and shrugging, ordered the gate opened and the woman rode out slowly, a wide smile of triumph on her face.

Now she was free and away from Thetos, and her next destination her homeland.

Zofela may have been towards the south-eastern limits of the empire, but it was beginning to attract newcomers and growth now that the emperor had put his court there. Mazag had already sent an ambassador there and he was enjoying the comforts of newly built quarters adjacent to the castle. The slaves were busy, erecting new constructions from the material pulled up from the old Kastanian entrenchments around the town. Houses, sheds, warehouses, fences. The list went on.

Visitors came to see the new provincial capital and what improvements had been made, and wondered at the pace of change. Gone were the signs of war and siege. Astiras – or, more accurately, Isbel – sent out edicts to tidy and clean the place up. Mud was removed from walls and staircases, flags fluttered from various places to brighten it up, and people were encouraged to decorate the fronts of their habitations. The dull, dour Zofela of old would be merely a bad memory.

Finding places for the newcomers to stay was a challenge; taverns and inns were scarce and most of the empty properties had been appropriated by the victorious Kastanian soldiers who had either called their families from Kastan City to their new homes or who had taken single or widowed women as theirs. It took a little time for the exhausted Kastanian men to get used to their Bragalese women.

Vosgaris was rushed off his feet. It was an endless sequence of checking who had come to Zofela, where they were staying, what they wanted, how long were they staying and so on. He then had to cope with the arrival of his sister back from Rhan who wanted to see him and barged into his office just as Amne arrived, breathless from a gallop the moment she’d seen the place from the last rise on the road. Alenna was also shouting out for Vosgaris to slow down in his dictation as she was finding it hard to keep up with the names and places he was spewing out rapidly, and Argan had turned up, both to see what the noise was and to complain about Istan’s habit of running up and down the passageways shouting out rude words at the top of his voice, and why wasn’t anyone doing something about it?

Vosgaris put his hands to his temples. Alenna was waving her quill at him, demanding he repeat the last name again. Amne was wanting his attention, wanting to be shown to her quarters; Argan screamed in glee at seeing Amne; Vasila was banging on his desk asking if he wanted to hear what had transpired at Rhan.

“Silence!” he roared, unable to take any more.

“You,” he pointed at Argan, “young man, go see your father about Istan. You,” he pointed at Vasila, “go and change; you’re covered in sweat. I want a written summary before dinner – you’re eating with me. You,” he flicked a finger at Alenna, “Princess Amne is staying here in the castle. Take the list to Pepil – he’ll need to see it. Now, all of you, give me peace and quiet!”

They left, leaving Amne leaning against his desk, an amused look on her face. “I like it when you’re forceful, Captain. You ought to be like that more often.”

“Oh, goodness,” Vosgaris sighed deeply. “This place is insane. Welcome, by the way.”

Amne grinned, shut the door, slid a bolt across it, then glided up to him. “Then welcome me appropriately.” She took hold of him and kissed him deeply.

Vosgaris forgot about his headache and returned the kiss, feeling a warmth spread up throughout him. In no time they were on the floor, ripping each other’s clothes off, and making love passionately.

Vosgaris had been in control of the situation, and rolled off, breathing heavily. “By the gods,” he said with a heavy sigh, “I damned well needed that!”

Amne agreed, making a long noise of contentment. She had tried to lead but Vosgaris, to her surprise and delight, had pinned her down and taken over. The pent-up frustrations she had felt had vanished in a wave of pleasure and heat, and had happily let Vosgaris loose on her. He seemed to have needed it as much as she had. “My stay here will be very memorable if this is anything to go by.”

Vosgaris got up and reached out a hand to the princess. Amne took it and was pulled to her feet. “You’d best get tidied up and presentable for your father. I don’t think he’d appreciate you turning up to see him looking like you’ve been ravaged.”

“No,” she giggled, “that wouldn’t do. I have things to do and to discuss with him anyway, but after tomorrow I’m free. I’d like to go riding with you.”

“Again?” Vosgaris said, smiling rakishly.

“You know what I mean,” she punched him lightly on the arm. “Oh, it’s good to see you, Vosgaris; I so wanted you after you went. It’s been beastly.”

“I understand. There have been letters from your husband to the emperor.”

“Oh he hasn’t been declaring our marriage difficulties to all and sundry, has he?”

Vosgaris shook his head. “I was with the emperor when the dispatches came in, and your father muttered about the two of you needing your heads being banged together, or something like that. He shut up when he saw me looking at him.”

Amne pouted. “We’re not well matched, and he’s such an unfeeling boor. Not like you, of course. Oh, you’re a man! You’d be perfect as my husband!”

“I thought you wanted Lalaas as your husband?”

Amne slipped on her undergarments. “Oh, he’s too correct. I’d ideally like a collection of men,” she smiled widely at Vosgaris, “one for today, another for tomorrow, and another for the day after.”

“One to dress you, one to undress you,” Vosgaris joined in lightly.

“You’ve got it,” Amne nodded. “A bed maker, a bed warmer. Mmmm, now that’s a lovely thought! Doing anything tonight, Captain?”

“Dinner with my sister and you, and the emperor and empress. The moment we got word you were coming it threw them into a fit of activity. So, less of the ravished visitor and more of the composed princess.”

“Oh, aren’t you just the commanding one?” Amne stepped up close to him. “Don’t get too used to telling me what to do; remember who I am.”

“As if I could forget, you beautiful woman.”

Amne smiled, kissed him again, hard and long, then located her remaining clothing and picked it up, dressed quickly, and moved to the door. “I have fifteen men from the Kastanian Imperial Mounted Militia, or as they like to shorten it, the KIMM, as an escort. They’ll need housing too.”

“Already arranged, ma’am,” Vosgaris bowed. “Stables and garrison quarters in the castle.”

“Well, you’re quite the efficient one, aren’t you? I’m impressed! Alenna Duras seems to have settled in, too, hasn’t she?”

“She’s just called Alenna these days, ma’am. Not a good idea to shout out the family name.”

“Indeed. Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”

“Shame,” Vosgaris said.

Amne regarded the captain for a moment, then slowly came up to him. “You are getting quite cheeky, aren’t you? Well, Captain, if you are good, I might give you the benefit of my lips in the next couple of days.”

“Please,” Vosgaris whispered.

Amne licked her lips slowly, winked, then returned to the door. “I want to see my younger brothers too. Please show me their quarters as well as mine.”

Vosgaris bowed and followed her out into the passageway. Guards walked up and down slowly, bowing to Amne as they noticed her. Amne smiled briefly in acknowledgement. They went along to a cross passageway and here the walls were adorned with tapestries and more lighting, and more guards were in evidence. “This, ma’am, is the imperial wing. A set of rooms set aside for the imperial family. At the end are the emperor and empress’s chambers, then Prince Argan, Prince Istan and here,” he showed Amne the nearest door, “a chamber set aside for the visit of either yourself, Prince Jorqel or Prince Elas.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Amne smiled. “Will there be a maid to see to my needs?”

“One will be along presently. Make yourself at home. I believe your belongings have already been placed in the chamber. If they haven’t, let me know.”

Amne said she would, then opened the door and stepped inside. Vosgaris watched until the door closed, then turned about and went back to his office. Alenna was there, sorting through a few more papers. “Oh, you’re back,” she said. “I felt it wise to stay out of her way.”

“Oh?”

“She’s got something of a – fearsome reputation, so I am led to believe.”

“Who, Amne?” Vosgaris was surprised. “The princess, I mean. Fearsome? No, I wouldn’t say that – who’s told you that?”

Alenna shrugged. “I hear gossip around, you know. People will say some really outrageous things! She has a temper, hasn’t she?”

Vosgaris pursed his lips. “We-ell, a little, maybe, but nothing terrible. She’s certainly forthright and uninhibited with her opinions, if that’s what you mean.”

“Hmm, I think it best I avoid her for a while, anyway. It was chaos in here, wasn’t it? Anyway, I delivered the papers to the emperor’s major domo. Everything seems fine. It’s getting late – what are the plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

Vosgaris sat in his chair, opposite Alenna. “We’ve received all the guests we’re meant to receive. There’s a dinner tonight and I’m one of the diners. The emperor wants me there since my sister has returned from Riliyan.”

“Oh. Well, tomorrow there’s a slave contingent going to the river to re-divert it back to its original course. Guards will be needed as escort.” Alenna studied the scroll for the morrow’s activities. “There’s a talk on street planning by that boring councillor which is being held here by the emperor. He needs to know what is being proposed.”

“Boring councillor? Oh, the one with the bald head and moustache. What’s his name? Boredon?”

“Borridon!” Alenna laughed. “Boredon! Better not say that too often or I might say that to his face! So, after that talk, the Mazag ambassador has his daily visit to the emperor for a chat, then we have Lord and Lady Varaz and their daughter Velka visiting us from Niake.”

“Oh, them!” Vosgaris recalled the last time he’d seen them and Argan’s misfortune with the mud and water on his and Velka’s clothing. “Velka is being lined up for Prince Argan.”

“Is she? That’s sweet. I wish I was lined up for someone,” Alenna sighed. “My family has made a mess of that. Did you know I was one of the women presented to Prince Jorqel in Slenna before his betrothal to Lady Sannia Nicate?”

“So I understand – that must have been nerve wracking.”

Alenna put her chin in her hand and her eyes went dreamy. “It was, a little, but father was so sour and testy, and the prince and he had a bit of an exchange. Mother was ever so cross with him afterwards. She said it had ruined any chance I had of marrying into the Koros.” She sighed. “Then, of course, father and my brothers really went mad and alienated everyone with that horrible plan to drug all of Niake.”

Vosgaris nodded slightly. “But you made the right choice and helped save all those lives, and for that the emperor and his family have taken you in and here you are.”

“Here, yes, but I’m without friends or family. I’m very alone, Vosgaris.” Tears began to run down her face.

A little awkward, Vosgaris put a hand on her shoulder. “You have a friend here, Alenna, you’re not alone.”

She smiled through her tears and squeezed his hand. Her throat was too tight to speak but she was grateful nonetheless for his words and physical touch; it was something she needed, especially at times like this when memories of her past came to the fore. She tried hard to banish them to the back of her mind which was why she threw herself so enthusiastically into her work. At night it was the worst, and often she cried herself to sleep, hugging her pillow, for there was nothing else to hug.

___

Argan was frustrated. Nobody was listening to him! That fantor-face Istan was so noisy all the time, and no matter who he spoke to about it, no-one seemed that bothered. Even Vos’gis had told him to go somewhere else, and he seemed very cross. Why he was cross Argan didn’t know, but on the advice of the captain he had tried to see his father but he had been told the emperor – Argan didn’t know why the smiling man Pepil always said that; why couldn’t he say his father? – was too busy and he would see him at dinner when they could discuss things over the meal.

Well, that was really ploppy. Argan liked using the word. Ploppy. A naughty word but not really one of the nasty ones. He’d heard a few of them spoken around the place and was shocked at how many were said. If they were nasty words why did people use them so much? Grown-ups. He didn’t want to become a grown-up. It seemed grown-ups said things they didn’t mean most of the time. That wasn’t being honest.

He thought maybe Amne would see him. After all, she had just arrived and apart from a quick hug he’d not had the chance to really speak to her. He knew which room she was in and so he went up to it, passing a guard who bowed to him. Argan bowed back slightly, as he’d been told to do. It was not right to bow lower than the guards. He guessed that was because he was higher in rank than the guard and the higher you were the less you bowed. Would his father not bow at all? Would a slave bow so low his head whacked the ground? Argan put his hand to his mouth to stifle his giggle.

He knocked on Amne’s door. After a moment one of the castle domestics appeared, her face wreathed in a frown. The frown vanished when she saw who it was. “Oh, Prince Argan!”

“Hello,” Argan said brightly. “I came to see my sister. Is she in?”

“Who is it?” Amne’s voice came from within the room.