House of Lust (7 page)

“Princessly duties?” Amne echoed, her lips twitching at the description.  “I do have an audience later with a number of people.  So I can leave it to you and my darling Corpse of a husband?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lalaas said as the door opened.  A curious guard saw who it was and waved them in.  “Thanks, Amne, I know you have feelings towards Dragan,” Lalaas said as they crossed the corner of the courtyard towards the locked door.  “But he has to be dealt with.”

“I know, Lalaas.  He’s such an arrogant man; treats me like some baby machine and adoring slave.  I’m a princess; what is he?  Nothing but a little social climbing opportunist!”

Lalaas grinned, unlocking the door.

“What’s so funny?” Amne demanded.

“You.  The way you said that – it’s so you.  That’s the Amne I like.”

Amne smiled back.  “You wouldn’t have me any other way, mm?”

“No – I wouldn’t respect a passive passionless one.”

Amne pushed against him as they walked down the passageway.  Lalaas pushed back gently.  Giggling, they carried on towards the front of the palace.

Vosgaris tied the last of the straps on his saddle and tested it.  Satisfied, he stepped away from the waiting equine and turned to Alenna, standing in the courtyard.  “I’ll be fine, sweetheart,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders.  “I won’t be gone too long; this shouldn’t take much time – I think I know who to speak to and what about, it’s just sorting out the whys and whens.”

“Be careful, Vos,” Alenna said, worry all over her face.  “These people are clearly determined to do no good to the emperor and the House of Koros, and if they know why you’re in Turslenka they may try to do something awful to you.”

Vosgaris kissed his wife and squeezed her gently.  “I’ll write once I’m there, don’t worry.  Just keep the place in order while I’m gone.”

Alenna nodded and stepped back miserably.  She didn’t want her husband to be gone.  He had been her comfort in the stark coldness of the castle, and she didn’t want to be too close to Astiras or Isbel.  She had the distinct impression they weren’t happy with her being there because of her heritage.  A Duras was always a Duras.  Neither had really taken any trouble to speak to her, save through an intermediary, but now she was stepping into Vosgaris’ shoes, she would almost certainly have to speak to the emperor on a regular basis.

Two other men were riding with Vosgaris, two of the Guard, picked because they were two of the biggest and meanest looking members.  If they were going to encounter any problems en route north, then it was best to have two such men with him.  They had no baggage, just spare clothing and supplies on pack equines.  Their journey should be reasonably swift.

Vosgaris mounted up, waved, then led the other two out of the courtyard into the streets of Zofela.  Alenna turned slowly and entered the keep, numbly making her way up the stairs towards her office.  To her surprise, one of the servants was waiting for her outside her door, and told her that the empress wanted to see her.

Intrigued, Alenna followed and knocked on Isbel’s door.  Getting permission to enter, she stepped forward and curtseyed as custom dictated.  Isbel gave her permission to rise.  The room, Isbel’s day room, was nicely decorated and the hard lines of the stonework softened by wall hangings, a large rug and stout wooden furnishings.  Three narrow slits opened to the town and these had shutters for the cold days and the night times.

The empress was seated in a thick wooden chair with a pleasant semi-circular design for its back rest and arms, its red cushions giving comfort.  Isbel waved Alenna into a smaller chair opposite her.  “Thank you for coming, Alenna.  I haven’t spent much time with you and I think it only right I should, since you are taking over the captain’s role while he is on the emperor’s business in Makenia.”

“Your majesty,” Alenna said.  She was very nervous; if not for Jorqel, then she had little doubt the emperor and empress would have arranged for either her execution or imprisonment somewhere.

“This business Captain Vosgaris is on, has he informed you as to what it is?”

“Some of it, ma’am, yes.  He did ask me to assist with looking through documents a few days ago.”

“And what did you find?”

“Ma’am – I don’t know why he wanted these documents, he said he couldn’t tell me the full story.  All I did was to give him documents from the administrative staff here, different examples of handwriting.”

Isbel nodded slowly.  “And he believes his answers lie in Makenia?”

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“Let me see.  We have two people here who have connections with Turslenka or Makenia.  Were those two amongst those whose handwriting were included?”

Alenna nodded.  “Do you think someone here is working hard for our destruction?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.  A malign or malicious person or persons unknown.  Who, of course, has to be discovered, and I’m sure your husband will find that out in due course.  I trust he can succeed and return here before any further harm can befall us.”

“Yes, ma’am, so do I.”

“You do?  Tell me, Alenna, you are a Duras; does this situation please you?”

Alenna’s heart skipped a beat.  “Oh, no, ma’am, I wish no part in any move against the Koros.  I even spoke out against my own father when he tried to overthrow the imperial forces in the west.  You must believe me when I say I’m dedicated to the Koros and Kastania.”

Isbel slowly stroked her lips with a forefinger thoughtfully.  “I do believe you, Alenna, but your name does you no good.  If someone can spread maliciousness against one House, then there’s nothing to stop them doing the same against another.  Should they discover that a Duras is here, who knows what they will do?”

“But that was all made secret, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but one secret was uncovered, and who knows if a second might be?” 

Alenna’s face slowly went white, the blood draining from it.  She began shaking.  “But-but I’ve co-operated with you and your family, and the empire!”

“That would make little difference to anyone opposed to the House of Duras.  Who knows who these people are, and why they are scheming to bring us all down?  I can protect you, of course, but I need you to keep me advised as to what is going on, you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am!  Please stop them from finding out my family name!”

Isbel sighed heavily.  “I shall, worry not, Alenna, although if whatever they do brings down the House of Koros, I doubt you’ll survive either.  Like it or not, your fate is intertwined with ours.  I think it best you return to your duties for the time being, but keep your ears open and inform me the moment you hear anything, understand?”

“Of course, ma’am, you can rely on me,” Alenna curtseyed hurriedly and left the room, leaving Isbel to reflect on what had been said.  She pulled a slight face of distaste.  She hadn’t enjoyed terrifying Alenna, but she had little choice.  Somehow she had to get inside Astiras’ investigations, and while she knew Vosgaris had a weakness for her, she doubted he would inform her of everything since he was working for the emperor.

She leaned back and frowned, then stopped.  Frowning created wrinkles and she didn’t want to make any more than absolutely necessary.  There were enough on her face as it was.  She was in her early forties and there was only so much one could do with face paint and cosmetics.  Was that why Astiras had betrayed their marriage?  She always had a dubious feeling towards Metila, and now she knew why.  The witch had saved Argan’s life, yes, but that was no reason for Astiras to have his wicked way with her.  Knowing the promiscuity of Bragalese women, Metila would have enthusiastically gone along with it.  She hissed in anger, then forced herself to relax.  There was no profit in going down that route.

To matters in hand.  Someone had found out and was now using it to cause harm to the Koros.  Why?  And, equally important, what were they hoping for in letting her know of her husband’s infidelity?  The marriage to break up?  That in itself would not cause the Koros to fall, but it would weaken their hold, and their unity would be broken.

What would happen to her if she did leave him?  She would lose her title of empress, and it would jeopardise the futures of both Argan and Istan – and their offspring – in relation to the throne of Kastania.  No, she would publically stay by Astiras’ side, damn his soul – and also his loins – but she could no longer trust him to be faithful.  If he strayed with one, then he could do so with more.  Perhaps there were more?  Oh, by the gods, it was not good thinking of that.    

So – who?  Turslenka and Makenia were connected, and two people in the household here had clear origins there.  One was the political advisor, Fostan Anglis.  A man whom she hadn’t quite made a connection with.  Always polite, efficient, but something there wasn’t right about him, too, just like Metila.  He seemed, well, distant, and as if something was there in the way between him and the Koros.  Perhaps she was imagining it or looking for something to prove her suspicions, but he was a suspect.

The other was the emperor’s biographer, Golten Mirrodan.  Mirrodan had been with them now for something like two years or so, and so far had done nothing to arouse any suspicion as to his loyalties.  He came from Turslenka.

She shook her head.  It could be either, or neither of them.  She needed more information, that was certain.  She didn’t trust Astiras to go about it the correct way.  He’d probably have the guilty party eviscerated and left hanging in a cage for a moon from the ramparts before he got any useful information from him.

___

Elsewhere in the castle Argan was staring at yet another yellowed sheet of parchment, weighed down at all four corners by solid objects on his desk.  “So, Mr. Sen,” he said to his tutor, the rotund and scholastic Iovan Sen, “an important foundation of any kingdom, empire or realm are the peasants and farmers.”

Mr. Sen nodded sagely.  “Without the farmers and low-classes there is no generation of goods and services, and without that there are no taxes, or food.  I doubt any of us would last long enough if we had to rely on ourselves to produce food or manufacture goods.”

“I see.  So by destroying the lowest classes you destroy yourself.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, from a ruler’s point of view.  If you wish to create a desert then wipe out the people and have an empty land.”

“Would that really create a desert?  Is that how deserts are made?”

Mr. Sen smiled.  Apart from the now deeper voice, Argan’s curiosity and enthusiasm for learning was unchanged.  “In places where there is little water, yes.  Unless the land is irrigated then soon all that is left is dust and sand, and it’s so much harder to change it to a fertile place when that has happened.”

“But here it would not be a desert as it rains.”

“True enough, sire, but a desert does not necessarily have to be of sand and dust.  Anywhere where nothing grows is a desert, and one can use it in describing something else, for example a person with no ideas and wit could be said to be in possession of a desert in his or her head.”

“Ah,” Argan put his book flat on his desk and thought on that for a moment.  “Using nouns as adjectives.”

Mr. Sen beamed.  “Precisely.  It appears some of what I’ve told you has stuck in that head of yours.”

“I remember most things, Mr. Sen.  Sometimes it gives me a headache, but I remember.”

“Oh, not like your old headaches, I hope?  We don’t want that to happen again!”

Argan shook his head.  “No, not like the ones I used to have before Metila cured me.  I don’t even have nose bleeds either.”

“A very curious thing that was too, may I say, young prince.  Still, amongst other things it’s given you a wonderful ability to recall memories and things you’ve learned.  You’re way beyond your age in understanding matters.”

Argan grinned.  Mr. Sen saw something of Astiras in the smile.  The boy had become steely-minded and much more confident since his near-death experience and his healing at the hands of Metila.  He had changed subtly, but he was still the pleasant-minded humorous prince of old.  So much preferable to his brother, Istan.  Mr. Sen was thankful he did not have to tutor him; that was the responsibility of Gallis, that former priest who had accepted the job without a murmur of complaint, and stoically stuck to his task no matter the abuse heaped on him by the foul-tempered Istan.

“I think that’s enough for this morning, sire,” Mr. Sen announced, glancing at the sun angling through the narrow arrow slit.  “It will be time for your martial lesson with Panat Afos soon.”

“Yes – a quick snack, then a change and its more hacking and gouging at a post and learning to duck that horrible swinging thing.  It whacked me the other day – and it hurt, I can tell you!”

Mr. Sen nodded in sympathy.  “Best you learn the hard way now; it might come in useful when you do get in a real battle.  Learn to watch your back.”

“Yes.  Perhaps Venn will use loads of those swinging machines in battle?  It’d be hard to defeat!”

Mr. Sen chuckled at Argan’s humour.  It was offbeat, to say the least, but inoffensive.  He stood and bowed to Argan as the prince left with a wave.

Argan walked along the passageway of the day chambers of the keep, on the first floor.  An occasional guard either stood on duty or came walking past on their rounds.  All saluted with their volgar, that fearsome looking bladed weapon on a long pole, slapping it close to their side and putting one arm across their chests.  Argan inclined his head in acknowledgement to all.  He was mindful that as one of the ruling House, he had to show manners to all.  So many of the preceding rulers, the Fokis, the Duras and others, had forgotten that they could only be popular if they treated their subjects fairly.  As Mr. Sen had once remarked, a ruler is only ruler for life.

The two associates of Istan were lounging indolently by an archway, set at the end of the passageway by the staircase that ran down to the ground floor.  It was a major junction as in the other direction it ran round the edge of the great hallway and then vanished up into another staircase that led to the upper floors.  The two were wearing daggers, which was strictly against the rules, and apparently were doing nothing other than passing the time of day making unflattering comments about the people who passed by.  They weren’t necessarily leaving enough space for these people to get through, depending on their social station.

The door they were outside was Istan’s classroom, so he was clearly learning something from Gallis – or maybe trying not to learn something, Argan corrected himself in his mind.  As he went to pass, one of the two, the bigger one, stepped across his path, not looking at him.