House of Lust (12 page)

“Very well,” Astiras picked up a wooden rod and smote it onto a block before him.  “I declare this Council in session.  We are entering the eighth year of my reign, and despite some of your gloomy predictions at that time, we are still here.”

One or two smiled briefly, but others scowled or remained still.  One, Slavis Anglis, a middle-aged handsome man with dark hair and a finely chiselled nose, shook his head.  “Sire, it is true we are still here, but it is only thanks to the efforts of Mazag and the gods that we are.  I have no doubt that, if Mazag had not intervened in the recent war, this castle would be flying the pennants of Venn, and if the gods had not dashed the Venn fleet to pieces on the shores of Romos, then that island would be in the hands of our enemies and not ourselves.  I do not think congratulations are that appropriate towards any of us here.”

A few agreed and tapped the table to show their feelings.  Astiras sighed and looked at the man, sat four chairs down on the right.  “Mazag were there thanks to the efforts of my daughter, so indirectly the destruction of the Venn army outside these walls was as much due to Princess Amne as it was to my efforts – in person – on the battlefield!”

Slavis made a conciliatory gesture.  “I accept that, sire, but the point I am making is that our armed forces are not sufficiently strong to defend our own borders.  I was under the impression since you are an army man, sire, you would have made sure we had a good enough army by now to adequately protect the people of this empire.”

Astiras waited for the roll of voices to finish.  “It seems there are some of you present who have forgotten the precarious situation we were in when I took the throne.  I thought I made it clear to all that the first task was to restore the finances of the empire, seeing that my predecessor raped the treasury.  There were little resources to recruit any new soldiers.  Thankfully things are now more stable and the current treasury balance is – ah –“ he looked to Isbel who he knew kept a close eye on the figures.

“Seventeen thousand, eight hundred furims.”  Isbel’s voice carried clearly to the bottom of the table.  “A loss of two thousand since the winter.”

“A loss?” another delegate, Lord Bosua, a tall, thin man with dark eyes who hailed from the province of Bathenia, said.  “So much?  Even with the taxes being collected?  Why so?”

Astiras indicated Isbel to continue.  That way he could look upon her without her objecting, as she did quite frequently these days. 

“We have paid out for new building projects, two of which are military garrison quarters in Niksos on Zipria, and in Romos itself.  We are also paying for the recruitment and training up of another mounted archer squadron on Romos, two in Kornith and a company of spearmen also in Kornith.  We are spending money on enlarging the army at last, Lord Anglis,” she said.

Slavis smiled and sat back.  “A small number of men, none of which are to garrison the long borders with the Tybar, or here in Bragal.”

“We must start somewhere.  We are also building a temple here in Zofela.”

“The gods must not be neglected, gentlemen,” Astiras said, regaining the attention of the delegates.  “We have the Army of the East here in Bragal, a large force designed to protect the heartlands from invasion.  In Lodria, we have the Army of the West, based in Slenna.  We have adequate garrisons in Niake, Turslenka and Kornith.  We also have a mobile response force in Kastan City, the KIMM, and now we have on Romos the RIMM.  It is hoped we can train up and support more mounted archer units, as they have proved invaluable to us in the recent past.  I am sincere in saying that we are working on making our borders even more secure.  In the next few days I myself will ride out from Zofela with a party of engineers to erect watchtowers on the approaches to this valley, and I have sent orders for more to be built in Bathenia and Makenia.  Soon we will have an early warning system in place watching all approaches to the heartlands.”

“All very well, your majesty,” a deep voice responded from further down the table.  A man with a lined face and white hair and a strong nose was speaking.  “But it does not present to the outside world Kastanian strength.  It is known that Venn are merely biding their time, and that our existence is dependent on Mazag’s protection.  I for one do not feel reassured by this fact.”

“And the Koros will work on that, Lord Branas,” Astiras nodded.  “We’re not sitting on our collective arses watching the world pass by, you know.”

Some of the men chuckled at that but Isbel shot him a sharp look that killed the moment’s humour inside Astiras.  Argan wondered at his father’s turn of phrase; as an emperor surely he shouldn’t use such language?  Would it be adopted by everyone else?  He didn’t think so, so why his father should use such words he didn’t know.  Nobody else was daring to do so here, so he guessed it was just the way the emperor spoke.  He had caught his mother’s look and knew she wasn’t too pleased.

In fact, the only other one who used such language as far as he knew was Fantor Face Istan.  He always swore when in the company of those two Bragalese companions of his, and sometimes he used it against a servant which Argan disapproved of.  The ruling House didn’t need to use such words – they had the authority to ask for anything, and so it was pointless giving emphasis to an order by swearing.  He’d once heard Genthe scold Amal who had said something very naughty after she had dropped something on her foot.  Genthe had threatened to wash the servant girl’s mouth out with cleaning salts if she ever swore again.  Argan idly toyed with the idea of doing that to Fantor Face, but knowing the big-mouthed little brother of his, he’d swallow the lot and then would be burping up bubbles all day long – Argan suppressed a snigger at the thought of Istan’s big mouth venting out a bubble big enough to cover the whole of the world.

“Indeed, sire, I am aware of that,” Lord Branas was saying, bringing Argan’s attention back to the council meeting, “but nobody takes our armies seriously.  I still hear merchants speaking about how our armies are held in contempt by foreign people.  It gets tiresome hearing them speak about us in the same old patronising manner.”

Astiras looked at the nobleman thoughtfully.  “Yet we stood firm outside these walls against the Venn cavalry charge – did anyone mention that?  I doubt that.  Mazag forces did not engage their elite cavalry arm – Kastanian forces did.”  He stood up and leaned on the table, his eyes boring into the assembled nobility there before him.  “I want to make it quite clear to you all that Kastanian forces stood that day against three cavalry charges and won.  Won!  We didn’t break.  Ask anyone who was watching that day, rather than some gabbling money-counter or foreigner who would love to see us crushed.  Ask proper warriors – people of Zofela, anyone here.  They’ll tell you how we stood and took everything those canine-loving Venn porcines threw at us.  Maybe under the Fokis or Duras the army would have defecated a wall high enough to block the charge, but we preferred to use conventional methods.”

The gathered nobility said nothing.  They all stared at the red-faced emperor.

“So I will not hear of any defamatory comment made by a seller of clothes being taken up as a fact by people who ought to know better.  Got it, all of you?”

There was a shuffling of feet and a few nods.  Astiras grunted and threw himself back into his chair.  He went to speak to Isbel but she was staring rigidly ahead, so he turned to Argan instead.  “That’s how you address people who try to spread defeatist talk, son.”

Argan bowed once, wondering why his father had found it necessary to speak to him as if he were sitting at the end of the room.

“Sire, there are however a few uncomfortable rumours circling round that the Council needs to discuss here,” another man said, standing up.  He was wearing long rich robes and had a brown beard turning grey.

“And what are those, Lord Kanzet?”

Lord Kanzet, a man once considered by rebellious groups as an emperor to take Astiras’ place, smiled thinly.  He had bided his time in disgrace, waiting for enough support from his fellow nobles to rise in order to be allowed back.  Now he had been forgiven, so to speak, his time in exile had ended and he was back, determined to get even with the Koros, if he could.  “Firstly, it is said that a certain minor nobleman might be considering raising the standard of revolt in Frasia.”

“Who?” Astiras pounced on the man, standing up.  “If you’ve heard a rumour, as you put it, then you could well have heard as to who this is.”

Lord Kanzet shrugged, an apologetic smile on his face.  “Regretfully, I cannot say.  Would it be right to accuse someone who may not be in fact taking such action?  Given the emperor’s previous reaction to those who have dared oppose him,” Kanzet said to the rest of the people at the table, “I might be condemning an innocent to a gruesome fate.”

“Oh, stop playing with words, you old fool,” Astiras snapped.  “If you think you can return to the Council just to cause mischief, then you can be escorted right back out to exile again!  Either you have evidence or you don’t – if not, then shut up and stop stirring people up!”

Kanzet sniffed in mock offence.  “Well if that is your attitude, sire, I shall not try to forewarn you again, nor advise you that one of your own family may be involved in the plot.”

“What!” Astiras took a step away from his chair, glaring at the smirking lord.  “What is it you’re saying, man?  Out with it!”

“Perhaps you should look to Kastan City, sire, since it is there that the rumours originate.  How can you trust members of your own family to run affairs if you’re stuck out here at the end of the empire?”

“Right, that’s enough, Kanzet, stop spreading your filthy words of poison.  I know all about people like you, and I’ve speared better men than you on the end of my lance.  If you want to undermine my family then do so with a sword in your hand and then speak it to my face.  Then we’ll see how brave you really are.  But I’m forgetting, aren’t I?” the emperor waved his right hand expansively, addressing the Council.  “Lord Kanzet doesn’t fight, does he?  He manipulates behind the scenes, and fights to the last drop of his men’s blood!”

Lord Kanzet bowed ironically.  “Oh how cutting, sire, you’re quite the humourist, aren’t you?  However, I doubt you’ll be laughing when I tell you of the second rumour, an even stronger one, originating here in Zofela itself.  One concerning the emperor and a slave girl, no less.”

The chamber exploded into noise.  Astiras’ face twisted into rage and he threw his chair across the room behind him, and stamped round the end of the table, intent on getting his hands on Kanzet’s throat.  The other lords stood up and blocked his way.

“Sire, stop!” Lord Taboz intervened, placing his body in front of the sneering figure of Lord Kanzet.  “This won’t help, and the Council would turn against you.  Please, sire, be seated.  We can discuss this like reasonable men – else it will be discussed without you, sire.  You know the alternative.”

Astiras fumed, his hands clenched.  Before him were his strongest supporters, all barring the emperor’s path to Lord Kanzet.  Slowly, reluctantly, Astiras retreated, an unreadable expression on his face.  A guard had retrieved his chair and had placed it back at the head of the table, and Astiras slowly sat down, his face haunted.  Isbel’s was white with shock, shock that it was now common knowledge.

Argan looked at his parents.  So this was why there was an uncomfortable silence between them, and why his mother had been so emotional of late.  She had cried like a child that day he’d taken her into his room after Istan had tried to strike her, and knew it wasn’t merely because of that, but she’d never spoken to him why.  With both mother and father seemingly unable to speak, Argan decided it was time he intervened.  “Lord Kanzet, what truth do you know of these rumours?”

“Alas, Prince Argan, I do not,” Kanzet said, sitting back down, speaking in a patronising way to the twelve year old.  “No doubt you are aware that rumours are just those, until they are verified.  Since the emperor is unlikely to admit the fact and we do not have access to the slave girl, a Bragalese woman in Turslenka, we cannot have confirmation that this liaison is true.”

“Metila?” Argan said, amazed.

“I believe that is her name, yes.”

“And how did you come about this rumour, Lord Kanzet?” Argan asked, determined to fight for both his father and Metila.

“Alas, I merely heard it spoken in the streets and taverns of Zofela.  You know how it is, a series of whispers passed on, they tend to change with every new teller.  Who knows the truth of the matter, but the fact it is being spoken is distressing enough.  People will no doubt ask whether the emperor is fit to rule when he conducts himself in such a manner.”

“And you have prejudiced yourself, Lord Kanzet, by accusing my father of being guilty before this can be verified,” Argan said, shocking the nobles with his delivery.

Lord Taboz chuckled.  “By the gods, Kanzet, the boy has got you there.  Underestimated him, I’d say.  So did I, but I won’t again.  Well said, young Prince.”

Kanzet’s smile slipped.  “Perhaps, but words won’t stop the spreading of the rumour.  The Council will have to debate whether such a crisis needs to be addressed and if so, what course of action needs to be taken.”

“What crisis?” Astiras barked, stung into action by the sound of his own son standing up for him.  “There’s no crisis, for Kastan’s sake!  The only crisis is being whipped up by you, Kanzet.  Your evil tongue has spread sedition and discord, and I took out my predecessor for precisely that reason.  So go carefully, or you might find your head impaled over the Frasian gate of this town!”