House of Lust (19 page)

Since then the youth, a curious mixture of Kastanian and Tybar, had attached himself to Louk, being a useful guide and thief.  The boy had told of a life growing up alone in a small village away from the cities.  His mother had been Kastanian, one of those raped by Tybar soldiers in the conquest.  As a half-breed, he had been shunned by both groups and the mother, a poor village girl, had struggled to bring him up the best she could, living off a wretched existence and charity.

Finally, the youth, called Beshin, had left home, having grown too boisterous for his mother.  She had tried to stop him going but he had had enough, and being the butt of comments from the other villagers, calling him ‘filthy Tybar’ and ‘over cooked’, a particularly nasty reference to his darker skin.  Two years living off his wits had sharpened his skills, but not quite well enough as Louk had pointed out.

Beshin wanted to see more of the world.  He had no particular love for Kastanians, and not much for the Tybar either.  Louk, though, had saved his life and had accepted him immediately, not calling him names.  When Beshin had finally asked why, Louk had shrugged and said he wasn’t bothered by what anyone looked like.  It was what they were as a person that shaped his attitude towards them.

Louk himself wasn’t too sociable which suited Beshin, and told the youth that he was spying on the new settlements to see if any of them were worth either stealing from or living in.  Beshin decided to come along and show the taciturn man what he knew of the area already.  What Louk quickly found was that the renegade Nikos Duras was here, posing as a dispossessed ‘Duke’, promising the rebels huge rewards if they backed his quest to regain his lost inheritance.

There were very few who knew who Nikos was, and even fewer who had actually seen him.  None of these lived up in the borderlands, although a few had heard of the Duras, and recognised the name as being nobility, which helped give credence to Nikos’ totally fictitious tale.  That was the one thing the Duras nobleman was actually good at; fabricating plausible stories to further his own ends.  It was fortunate, Kiros mused to himself, that he was so bad at leading soldiers.  The gods had given him the gift of a silver tongue, but had balanced that by taking away any tactical ability he may have had.

It was typical of the man to have taken refuge in the biggest of the settlements, attaching himself to one of the meanest brigands, someone whom Beshin called Vazil the Ruthless.  The name Vazil was Kastanian, so perhaps he was a former imperial officer or soldier who had been separated from his unit in the years recently gone.  He was said to be a tough, bad-tempered individual, not adverse to inflicting painful punishments on people who transgressed his laws.

“I doubt we’ll manage to steal much from here,” Kiros grunted, and slid backwards off the lip of the rise, getting up only when he was sure he was out of sight of the settlement.  Beshin followed, unsure as to what was going to happen next.

“Which is the road to Imakum?” Kiros asked suddenly, looking at a pair of tracks that led away, separating into two distinct directions.  They weren’t really roads, but merely tracks used by the inhabitants of the area.

“That one,” the youth pointed to the left hand one.  “Why do you want to go there?”

“To see if there are better riches worth stealing there.  It’s a city, so there must be more to steal rather than here in this barren wasteland.”

“There are soldiers and walls,” Beshin pointed out.  “Too many.”

“I’ll avoid them.  There’s certainly nothing I want out here.  I’ll try my luck in Imakum.  You don’t have to come; your world is out here.”  Without waiting for a response, Kiros moved off, loping along the left hand track.

Beshin stood irresolutely for a while, then shook his head and moved in the man’s wake, not knowing why he was following him, but instinct told him he should.

For Amne the thrill of seeing Fostan behind Elas’ back without even Lalaas knowing gave her a warm glow.  The young officer was very malleable, faithfully following her orders to the letter, always managing to be in a place she wished when she turned up, making love to her, then waiting till she had left before leaving himself.

It wasn’t a regular thing; Amne knew that to do that too often would run a huge risk of getting caught, so she tried her best to appear to be the attentive wife and mother.  Elas said little; he viewed Amne with suspicion and said nothing to her of the beating he’d given her.  As far as he was concerned, he had meted out a just punishment to someone who simply was not prepared to listen to words.  Clearly a stronger approach had been necessary, and now it had been done, perhaps she had learned her lesson, as she should have.

She no longer teased him, for it was a waste of time and she was, to be sure, more than a little apprehensive around him.  The beating had left its mark, and only served to make her want to be away from him even more.  If she got her sexual satisfaction from the young KIMM officer, so be it.  She definitely wasn’t going to get it from Elas who seemed even less inclined to touch her.  Perhaps her ill-fated affair with Dragan Purfin had made him too disgusted with her to touch, except to beat her.

Well, she would never endure such a humiliation again, and she vowed to be very discreet with any future affair.  As for Lalaas, she would be very correct towards him.  She didn’t know just what Elas would do to him if he thought Amne was showing any unwarranted affection towards him.  If he could beat her like that, then what would he do – or try to do – to Lalaas?  No, Lalaas did not deserve any such punishment, for he was an innocent, a true man, and she would not get him into any trouble.

She contented herself with spending her spare time with her two daughters, watching how they were growing slowly.  There were appointments to be met, of course, and she projected the image of an imperial princess as best she could.

A Sevenday had passed since she’d last seen Fostan Telekan when she felt the need for him again.  She made an innocent enquiry as to how the new captain was faring to Elas, who dropped the shocking news into her lap.  “He is indisposed, Amne.  I have sent him on a mission to one of our furthest-flung estates out on the border with Makenia.  He will be away for some time.  I judged that now he had been promoted to captain, he could handle this sort of task.  Why do you ask?”

Amne shrugged.  “I was responsible for recommending him to captain; I wanted to make sure he hadn’t let my faith in him down.”

Elas nodded.  “A reasonable concern.  I think he is serving your faith in him very well.  So, the new recruits.  They are training up in the courtyard.  I’m worried that we cannot house the new numbers coming in.  I wonder if you know of any place we can garrison the overspill?  I must admit I do not.  There again, I’m not a native of the city, so I was wondering if you knew of any or knew of someone who would?”

Amne pondered on the subject.  “I think there are some old council accommodation blocks across the square behind the city hall.  The council buildings are still in a poor state of repair.”

“I know, but currently we do not need a council to compete with us.  A small administration here in the palace is sufficient.”

“Elas, the building is an eyesore.  It badly needs a clean-up, and a use.  If the roof goes then the cost of repairing it will be too much for our budget to handle.”

The prince sucked on his lower lip.  “Very well.  It clearly needs an inspection, but I do not really have the time at present to devote to such a project.”

Amne sighed.  His flowery speech irritated her, as did many things about him.  “Oh, in that case I will go see it.”

“Really, Amne?  What of your schedule?  Are you not supposed to be receiving guests this afternoon?”

“I can postpone them to later in the week.  I’ll take a couple of guards with me.  I don’t suppose you’ll let Lalaas accompany me?”

Elas shook his head.  “You are correct.  His duties are here, as you well know.”

“Elas, you exasperate me.  Any straighter and your backbone will snap.”

“Pardon?” Elas frowned, not understanding his wife.

“No matter, Elas; it’s not important.  I’ll take two off-duty men, and one of the clerks from the admin office next door, with your permission,” she added sweetly, a fixed smile on her face.

“Granted,” Elas inclined his head, then watched as she left before shaking his head slowly.  She still was a mystery to him.

Amne crashed into the administrative office and demanded to know which of the row of clerks was not currently employed on any task, and a short, middle-aged man stood up.  He was balding and what hair he did have was white and wispy.  She commanded him to accompany her to the council halls.

Next she strode purposefully to Lalaas’ office, at the end of the entrance hallway.  It wasn’t so much a room as an alcove with a desk.  Lalaas preferred to sit and watch who came and went.  “Lalaas, darling,” she purred with her best smile on maximum, “I want two of your guards to come with me on a little walk to the disused council buildings opposite.”

“Ah, yes ma’am,” he said standing up with alacrity.  That was the trouble with Amne; she came thundering along without any warning, like a storm.  He scribbled a quick note and called one of his men to take it to the guard barracks at the rear of the palace.  “They’ll be along in a moment, ma’am.”

“Very good, Lalaas.  Is everything fine?”

The captain nodded, still unsure as to what mood the princess was in.  “Do you need a bigger escort, ma’am?”

“Oh, no, the prince thinks two guards is enough.  I did ask for you but of course, he vetoed it.”  Amne smiled at him.

Lalaas permitted himself a brief grin in response.  “If he wouldn’t allow me to come then it must be safe.”

“Of course,” she replied, eyeing him up and down.

Lalaas rolled his eyes and glanced at the clerk who was taking no notice, clearly feeling uncomfortable in the princess’s presence.  He returned his gaze to Amne and tried to affect a sternly disapproving one at her blatant review of his physique, but she merely smiled even wider.  Amne would not change her ways, even though she had two daughters.

The two guards turned up, armed, and with one last wave, Amne led the three others out of the palace through the main entrance and out of the gates into the square.  People bowed as they caught sight of her and she nodded back.  She was wearing a smart dress but not one given to outrageously flowing sleeves, as some fashionable ones were.  Her preference was for practical ones, and the hem reached her ankles, as decency dictated, but did not drag on the ground.

The council buildings were locked and shuttered.  It was a standing joke now in Kastan City that the buildings were merely there to make the palace look good.  One of the roads leading off the square passed alongside the council buildings, and behind the main building that faced the square were smaller buildings, including ones that had been used as stables in the past.

The clerk, a former council employee, knew the layout and showed Amne into the yard after the gates were unlocked.  Rubbish and detritus lay all about, and discarded pieces of council equipment lay rotting or rusting.  The doors of the stables were weather beaten and worn looking, and rot had set in.  One or two were loose and lay at an angle.

As they looked about, a pair of eyes followed them from a place of concealment.  Eyes hostile to the princess, blazing with resentment and a wish for revenge.

____

Vosgaris was not feeling too good.  At least, he assumed so.  His mind wasn’t working too well at that moment, and he was trying to work out what was happening to him.  His vision was blurred, he had a huge headache and he appeared to be moving without ordering his legs to work.  In fact, his legs were dragging on the ground and he was floating along. 

He became aware of another thing; he was being carried by two fairly strong men dressed in chain armour and smelling as though they hadn’t washed in a few days.  Now he remembered.  He had been making the rounds of Turslenka’s streets at dusk when a gang of men had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and laid out both his companions and that was the last he’d known of it as someone had struck him on the head.

So here he was, wherever here was.  He felt like he wanted to throw up, but he decided not to – he wanted to show these people he wasn’t a weakling.  Metila’s words still smarted.  That was another thing; where exactly was here?  He was indoors, being dragged along some cold bare passageway, lit occasionally by torches.

There was a room ahead and he passed through a doorway.  A glimpse of a wooden door with a barred grille and a carved symbol of a hammer and a chisel.  He was thrown to the floor.  That hurt.  He lay there, wondering what was going to happen next.  He doubted it was going to be pleasant.

It wasn’t.  A sudden dousing in some cold liquid which may or may not have been water – it smelled filthy – and he was hauled up roughly and dumped in a hard unforgiving chair.  He shook his head and blearily looked forward through the dripping water falling from his soaked hair.  A table, an oil lamp – probably piscine oil, judging by the smell and smoke – and a man sat behind it.

“If you wanted me to visit you could have asked,” Vosgaris said with an effort.

“Shut it, and don’t try to be funny,” a rough, unpleasant voice grated from the figure before him.  He couldn’t see his features due to the poor level of light and the fact he was in most of what there was while his host was in relative darkness.  “We want to give you a message, a warning if you like.”

“You probably know where I’m staying, so why not write?”

He didn’t hear anything being said, but he later guessed a signal must have been given, for there came a sudden agonising shaft of pain in his ribs and he curled up, panting, from the blow.  He was pulled upright and two pairs of hands held him fast to the chair.

“I told you to shut it.  I’m not a humorous man.  Now you listen well, Koros lackey.  Stop your questioning, get out of Turslenka or there’ll be trouble.  Got it?  Any more sticking your nose in things that don’t concern you, and you’ll be sorry.”

“Won’t do any good,” Vosgaris gasped, “as the emperor himself sent me.  If anything happens to me, he’ll order this city turned upside down and send in three, four, five more like me.”

“That won’t happen,” the man said confidently.  “Anyway, if he did, he wouldn’t find nothing.  What do you know?  Nothing.  But you’re upsetting someone and that someone wants to pass on a message to leave him alone, got it, Captain?  You show your ugly face around places you shouldn’t be, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“I can’t refuse the emperor, can I?” Vosgaris protested.

“Well in that case you’re going to experience a lot of pain and suffering.  Think on it well.  Don’t stay here another day.”

Vosgaris was struck again and his world descended into darkness.

He slowly came round, with no idea how long he’d been out, in a dark alleyway that smelled of ordure, piscines and dead canines.  Groaning, he staggered to his feet, then threw up.  Bent double, he remained there for a few moments, retching, before wiping his mouth and leaning on the wall of the alley and looking towards the light.  It was still night, and probably in the early watch.

Slowly he staggered to the end of the passageway and looked left and right along the street.  In the distance there walked a militia patrol, making sure the streets were safe for the citizens of Turslenka. 
What about the visitors, though?
he asked himself sourly.  Left was the direction of the governor’s residence, so he made his way along the street unsteadily, wondering what had happened to Arkanin and Hendros.  He hoped they were alright and not dead.

He was about halfway to the residence when a patrol came marching round the corner and almost bumped into him.  One of them was a young officer he’d seen in the governor’s, and the officer half-ran forward.  “Oh by the gods – Captain!  We’ve been looking for you everywhere!  Are you alright?”

Vosgaris mumbled something and slumped into the arms of two guards who caught him before he fell to the ground.  Everything spun and grew dark; now he let go, knowing he was safe.

When he opened his eyes he was lying in a bed and it was daylight.  His head hurt and he felt as if he had been kicked along the main street of Turslenka by a squadron of heavy cavalry equines.  He groaned and looked around.

Metila.

She was looking at him with an odd expression.  As he went to speak she shook her head, wagged her finger and lay it across his lips.  “No talk.  You hurt bad.  Need recover, no speak.  I heal.”

Vosgaris hissed his breath out slowly and lay back.  That sounded good to him.  He was lying with his lower parts covered but his chest and shoulders uncovered, and they looked all colours, bruised and cut.  “Uhh?”

“You been beaten.  No talk!  I heal, you lie and be still.”  Metila frowned and went away, leaving Vosgaris alone for a few moments, then the door opened and in came Thetos, slowly, and with a concerned expression on his face.

Vosgaris flapped a weak hand in acknowledgement and began to lever himself up but the gruff old governor waved him back down.  Two guards came in behind and stood by the door, looking dead pan.  “Well, Captain,” the governor said, looking down at him, “looks like you made someone angry.”