House of Lust (23 page)

“Yes.  That is why you, as ruler, must be very careful not to upset the populace.  Do it too much and they will rebel, which is very bad indeed.”

Argan nodded.  He had been told that enough times, but he knew that for himself anyway.  It was silly upsetting the very people you were supposed to be looking after; why would anyone want to do that?

After repeating the other military features of the empire, Mr. Sen was satisfied that the young prince had had enough.  Besides, his stomach was protesting that no food had been sent down to it for such a long time.  He dismissed Argan and heaved himself up out of his chair.  Time to go see whether dinner was being prepared, and perhaps he could sample some of that fine Turslenkan piscine pie the city was renowned for?

Argan went to his room, which was now thankfully free of a crowd of cleaners and movers, and only Amal was there, diligently arranging Argan’s clothes and belongings.  The prince smiled.  “Better it’s quiet now, Amal, eh?  I couldn’t be any good with all those people there – I’d get in the way.”

“Yes,
Lakhani
,” she said, standing up.  She looked around the room.  Nothing seemed all that much out of place, although a few things still needed to be put away somewhere.  “I have been told that they are going to find a bed for me in the servants’ wing.”

“Well that’s not going to happen,” Argan said with a huff.  “You will sleep here, in my room.  Who told you that?”

“The governor’s servant, I don’t know his title.  Thin man, big nose.”

“Oh him, yes, I saw him as we were coming in.  Well I’ll tell him straight!  You can sleep there,” Argan waved at a clear space on the floor.  “A few blankets, a pillow and a bed of rushes and that’s as warm and comfy as anything!”

“Yes, I would prefer to be here – I feel safe with you.”  She put her arms around herself.  “It’s been so strange moving here; my homeland left behind, my people, everything I have grown up with.  You’re about the only person left I know.”

“Oh don’t worry, Amal, it’ll be alright, just you see,” Argan said, putting his arms on her shoulders.  “A few days and it’ll be like another home.  We can go to the beach and the river, and maybe even sail on the sea!”

“I’ve never seen the sea,” Amal said in a small voice.

“Oh well that’s going to change – you’ll love it!  So different than the hills and valleys of Bragal.  That’s the great thing about being able to move around, you can see lots of the world.”

“You take it so easily,
Lakhani
, and nothing seems to bother you.  I’m frightened.”

Argan sighed and put his arms round the girl who nestled her head against his chest.  “I’m here and there’s no need to be.  There’s no Fantor-Face here, nor Genthe.”

She nodded but clung to him still.  They remained embraced for a few moments, then she sighed and stepped back.  Her face was red and her eyes watery.  “I shall be happy with you being here.”

“And you’ll have Metila to talk to, too.  She’s from Bragal.”

“Yes, I know – she’s scary, isn’t she?”

“No, at least not to me.  She saved my life.  I want to see her soon.”  Argan realised he hadn’t seen the woman since he’d arrived.  Making sure the girl was fine, he left her to complete the tidying up and wandered off towards the governor’s residence.  Guards were in evidence and he was asked if he wanted an escort.  Argan shook his head and went to the door of Thetos’ room.  The guards looked unsure as to whether they should let him in or not, but decided to step aside.  A prince was a prince, after all.

Argan poked his head round the door and saw his father talking to Thetos and two other men.  Astiras caught sight of him and waved him in.  “Gentlemen, my son, Prince Argan.”

Thetos knew him already but had not seen him for a couple of years, and Argan had shot up and was beginning to grow into a young adult.  The other two, one in armour and the other in court clothing with long sleeves and a soft floppy hat, bowed low.

Astiras smiled and held out his arm for Argan to stand next to him.  “My son here is to remain in Turslenka for the next four years or so, learning how to govern a province.  Governor Olskan here will tutor him.”  He looked at Argan.  “I shall depart in the morning for Pelponia but I shall return via Turslenka to see how you’re doing.  Now,” he sat on the edge of the table.  “A last meal together.  Governor, where is your banqueting hall?”

“Ah, sire,” Thetos looked slightly abashed.  “I normally dine here alone.  The others use the hall at the end of the corridor.”

The emperor eyed Thetos sharply.  “That’s not a good example to set, Thetos!  I want my son to eat with the entire administration, listening to them, knowing what it’s like to grow up around those who actually run a province.  The hall it shall be – we dine there in one watch’s time.”

Thetos looked alarmed.  He’d forgotten to arrange a meal.  He looked full at the courtier.  “Go arrange the seating and make sure the cooks know how many they are preparing the meal for.”

The courtier left.  The man in armour stood to attention.  “And me, sire?”

“Go bring our expected guests to – ah – a suitable holding place as discussed,” Astiras grinned, glancing at his son.  “I shall visit them shortly.”

The armoured man saluted and left.  Argan looked puzzled.  “Guests, father?”

“Special ones, but they’re not coming to dinner.  I shall speak with them before dining.”

“Are they going to stay?  Will I meet them?”

Astiras chuckled and gently steered Argan towards the door.  “Now, now, Argan, patience.  There are plenty of things you have to learn and you’re not yet old enough for certain tasks, as I’m sure you’ll understand.  One day you’ll be shown these duties, but not all of them are pleasant, I can tell you!”

Argan meekly obeyed, but he felt that his father was hiding something from him.  He didn’t know what, but there was this atmosphere of concealment and he didn’t both understand, nor like it.  Still, his father wasn’t someone to disobey so he left the room and returned to his chamber.

Amal had finished making the room tidy, and she looked relieved that Argan had returned.  “I shall have to eat with the other staff, so I have been told,” she said.  “I do not know anyone here and I’d rather stay with you,
Lakhani
.”  She looked apprehensive, so Argan smiled and put an arm round her shoulders.

“Don’t worry, I’ve already said its fine for you to sleep here, so once you’ve done eating come here and make everything ready for sleeping.  Don’t let any silly courtier push you round – if they try tell them I said you are to remain in my chamber and if they want to argue I will tell them to their faces.”

She looked relieved, but she still felt very isolated and vulnerable.  It would take a long time, she thought to herself, before she felt at ease in this strange place with these strangers speaking in a strange accent.  Only Argan’s presence made it bearable.

She wondered too, when she was going to meet Metila, her countrywoman, and oddly that made her even more nervous.

Night had fallen over the town of Zofela but Isbel was not even contemplating sleep just yet.  Too much was going through her mind and there was far too much to do before she could afford the luxury of sleep.

Once more she was left to run the empire in the absence of her husband.  He had more or less given her the authority to carry out whatever policies she deemed necessary, an extraordinary fact given that up to now he’d been loath to give her any leeway from what he had wanted. 

She was very confused about Astiras; the memory of him making love to her the evening before he had left – and the following morning, too – was still foremost in her mind.  If she was truthful to herself she had to admit that she had missed that and had only kept her distance from him through her adherence to her principles.  The fact Astiras had taken her and brushed aside any objection had made it acceptable in her mind that she had stuck to them to the bitter end.  Now there was no point to maintaining her distance.  Even as she thought that, she realised she was only trying to kid herself.  He had once again dominated her, reducing her to the secondary role in their marriage.

Yet she yearned for his physical touch, and she hated herself for it.

She had to concentrate on her tasks.  There was the distressing decline of Teduskis to think about; the poor man’s mind was mostly gone and he was mostly babbling these days about a time long gone.  He could only talk about the past, the long past, and didn’t know who anyone was who went to see him.  He had two carers, elderly women in the payroll of the Court, who took no nonsense and tended his needs from dawn to dusk.  He was hardly able to use the conveniences by himself now, and he was virtually housebound all the time.  At least his surroundings were decent enough – he had one of the new houses in the Kastanian Quarter, the new part of town built following Zofela’s rebuild.

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.