House of Lust
Authors: Tony Roberts
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Epic, #Sword & Sorcery
Copyright Tony Roberts 2015
ISBN 978-1-51310-105-2
Website http://tonyrobertsauthor.com
Cover artwork by Lisa Ravenscroft
The courtyard echoed to the ringing of steel on steel as the two youths swung their swords and hacked at one another. One was a lean, dark-haired boy with a pair of piercing blue eyes, the other slightly shorter, his hair not as dark as the first, and had paler blue eyes.
They moved back and forth, neither showing any sign of tiring. Their blades were identical – short, slim blades with leather-bound hilts. Neither were wearing any armour, being attired instead in padded jackets and loose-fitting hose. The shorter of the two had a crest on his jacket, that of a shield divided into blue and white quarters and flanked by black wings. The other had none.
Watching with interest were a number of people; blacksmiths, soldiers, townsfolk. One or two other youths looked on, too. In the background a looming stone castle towered above them, four floors of narrow windows or arrow slits looking out on them, some occupied by onlookers.
Both youths were gritting their teeth, neither prepared to back down. They were well-matched, and if both hadn’t been so adept at defence, it was likely one or the other may well have collected a wound or worse.
Finally an older man with a scar down his face and possessing only one eye interceded. “That’s enough, sire, Kerrin. You’re both getting exhausted and a mistake may well be made.”
The two stepped back and bowed to one another. Most of the onlookers burst into applause and the two turned and bowed to them, too. Two servants came forward, cloths in hand, and the two perspiring boys gratefully took one each. The older man collected the swords and sheathed them. “That’s enough for today. You’ve both done well. I’m pleased with your progress.”
“Thank you, Panat,” the shorter of the two replied. “I am pleased with how our sword play is progressing.” He looked at his sparring partner. “Your blows are getting harder, ‘Rin.”
Kerrin Afos grinned. “As are yours, ‘Gan. What’s the rest of the day to hold for you?”
Prince Argan of the House of Koros wiped his wet face and neck and looked thoughtfully at the stone edifice of the keep of Zofela, capital of the Kastanian province of Bragal. “Tonight’s the big celebration – you’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes,” Kerrin nodded. His voice, like that of Argan’s, was of that peculiar tone adolescents had when their voice started to break. Both were twelve and growing up fast. Sometimes they squeaked and at other times boomed. They would have to get used to their new voices fast. “I mean before then.”
“Nothing – at least I think so, unless Mr. Sen has something up his large sleeves.” He grinned at his humorous observation. Kerrin duly chuckled briefly. “I could do with a clean-up after our spar. You got a servant to do you?”
“Oh, yes. She’s a bit clumsy but nothing to worry about. I suppose Sasia will bathe you?”
Argan glanced at Kerrin. He wondered at the edge in his voice, but he was used to Kerrin being a bit touchy about Amal, Argan’s personal servant, called Sasia by Kastanians. Perhaps he was jealous of having one so devoted to him as the Bragalese girl was. There again, Kerrin hadn’t been saved from a life-threatening situation by the witchcraft of another Bragalese woman, Metila, which had somehow given the young Argan a complete knowledge of the Bragalese language. Amal had submitted to Argan at their first encounter, pledging her life to him, recognising him as some kind of special person,
Lakhani
. “She always takes good care of me, ‘Rin. You shouldn’t worry too much about her – I’m as safe with her as I am with you.” He slapped his childhood companion on the shoulder and began to lope off the practice field, Kerrin following a little morosely.
As they reached the border of the field, marked with a low wooden fence, they passed close to Argan’s younger brother by three years, Istan. Istan was quite thickset and stocky; mostly, so Argan maintained, because of his eating. Istan did have a healthy appetite, and a dark personality. He had been a bad-tempered child and now at the age of nine was becoming snide and underhand. He had his usual two companions close to him, two Bragalese boys from Zofela whose fathers had died in the taking of the town by Astiras Koros, Emperor of Kastania and the father of both Argan and Istan.
“You fight like a woman,” Istan observed, eating on a sweetfruit, speaking through his food. He knew it irritated people so he did it deliberately, sometimes spitting his food out onto the listener. As a prince he was only answerable to his father, and then only reluctantly.
“You sound like one,” Argan countered, wiping his face again. “I’m surprised you’re here and not in the kitchen feeding your fat face.”
Istan’s mouth turned down. “Once I’m emperor I’ll have you thrown into prison, you girl.”
Argan laughed and looked at the scowling duo behind his brother. “You’ll never be emperor, Istan – you’re far too nasty to people. Nobody will want you in charge, not even Jorqel. He’ll make sure anyone other than you is named his successor.” Jorqel was the heir to the throne and the older half-brother of the two boys.
“We’ll see. He’ll not want a weakling like you as emperor – you’ll be too busy crying to rule the empire!”
Argan snorted and walked off, Istan’s mocking crying sound in his ears. The two Bragalese boys laughed. Kerrin glared at the two and then caught up with his friend. “Why do you let him speak to you like that, ‘Gan? You could beat all three on your own! Let me teach them a lesson!”
Argan shook his head sadly. “Those two horrible Bragalese boys, yes, but you can’t touch Fantor-Face.” The nickname was Argan’s special name for Istan, named after a mythical beast that grew to enormous size. “If you did, you’d be in trouble.”
“But not you – you’re his brother and also a prince. I’d love to see you teach him a lesson!”
“Father and mother don’t like the idea of us fighting. They always split us up and you’ve seen yourself how they protect him because he’s younger and smaller than me.”
“But he always starts it!”
Argan reached the entrance to Zofela’s newly completed castle, a stout looking stone construction. It had been finished only the previous year and in a hurry because of the war with neighbouring Venn. They stood for a moment at the edge of the ditch and looked at the four floors of windows and slits. “I know, ‘Rin, but often people who start trouble are looked after by people who are too protective, and it only makes the trouble maker worse.” He sighed. His vocabulary was pretty good for one of his age, but that was down to his intense education. In four years he would have to take up a governorship of a region and a generalship of a unit of soldiers. The odd thing was that once he learned a new word in his native Kastanian language, he automatically knew its equivalent in Bragalese. He couldn’t explain it; neither could anyone else, least of all his tutor, Mr. Sen. “I’m going to rest until this evening. Father will want me at my best for his celebration.”
Kerrin grunted in agreement. “Eight years as emperor. He will be happy.”
“I hope so. Mother and he have been arguing today. Again.” He eyed one of the windows high up with a sad look. He disliked it when his parents squabbled, and today’s blow-up was one of the worst he could recall. The shouting had echoed down the passageway. He had no idea what it was all about, but no doubt one of the servants would tell him. Argan had a nice little network of friends in the castle who told him many things, and that included gossip about his younger brother, none of which was good.
He grinned at Kerrin and entered the castle, passing under the portcullis and acknowledging the salutes of the two palace guards stationed there. There was a great entrance chamber beyond and staircases ran up on both sides, as well as arched doorways standing in three of the four walls. Kerrin went off to his chamber to clean up, followed by a servant, while Argan began to climb the left-hand staircase, a wide wooden one with a smooth thick handrail.
Coming down the stairs was an armoured figure, a sword hanging from his belt. A good-humoured man of almost thirty years of age, dark haired and sporting the latest fashionable facial hairstyle of a half-beard; he had a moustache and chin hair, but shaven on the sides of the face. “Good day, young Prince,” he greeted Argan. “A good workout?”
“Yes, Captain Vos’gis,” Argan said, bobbing his head. “Apart from Fantor-Face being there.”
Captain Vosgaris, commander of the palace guard, glanced towards the entrance lest Istan was there, but relaxed when he saw it empty. “Careful, Prince Argan. One of these days he’ll hear you.”
“I don’t care about that, Vos’gis. What can he do anyway? Eat more?” Argan laughed easily. “Then he will be a fantor!”
Vosgaris smiled and shook his head in wonder. “It’s best you two don’t start quarrelling tonight – your father has enough to cope with at the moment what with your mother and he at each other’s throats.”
“Have you any idea what that is all about?”
Vosgaris shook his head. “Best not to ask, either.” He saluted and carried on with his inspection, making sure all the guards were where they were supposed to be. Security was only as good it was as at the present moment, and one could never be sure if someone was intent on causing harm to the emperor and his family.
Argan wasn’t convinced by the captain’s glib reply and sudden need to be gone. He carried on along the stone passageway towards his quarters. The new stone keep was a welcome change to the wooden castle that had come before. They had gone through some discomfort and inconvenience during the construction but had finally moved into their new abode in mid-winter.
It had seemed cold and dark at first but slowly they had got used to it and the fires they had in their rooms helped a lot on both counts. With a wooden castle a fire had to be small and carefully managed, not so now. The dismantled walls and old castle wood had been used to make staircases and floor planking in the new keep. A second staircase stood beyond a narrow archway off to one side of the passageway and Argan took this, acknowledging another guard’s salute. This was a winding staircase in a turret and gave access to the upper floors where the imperial family resided. The lower two were for guards, guests and everyday use.
Up on the third floor the rooms and passages were bigger. The passageways were half as much wider again, and he could pass by guards without getting too close to them. Tapestries hung from the walls here and other furnishings decorated the walls. As he passed one open door, his mother looked up and spotted him. “Ah, there you are, Argan. Hold on a moment, I need to speak to you.”
Argan groaned to himself and stopped. His mother was always fussing or fretting and he so wished she didn’t. He stood stoically and waited for her to emerge, moving and working at a much faster pace than the rest of Kastania, as usual. “Yes, mother?”
“Now I want you to be in your best outfit for this evening. I’ve already told Sasia to make sure your best clothes are properly prepared. And make sure you’ve washed and cleaned up as you’re all sweaty and smell like you’ve been working in a leather shop.”
“Mother, don’t fuss. She knows already; I’ve told her this morning.” Argan was just about the only one who called Sasia by her true name. Bragalese children, orphaned from the war, had been adopted to serve the imperial family or other Kastanians and given new names, severing their identity with their past. At least, that was the theory. Argan knew the Bragalese would never forget their heritage, and he made sure Amal felt reassured by him whenever they were alone in his room. He always addressed her in private as Amal and spoke to her in her language. Amal’s respect for him had grown as a result.
“Hmmm, well I’ve told her just to make sure.” Isbel looked at Argan severely. “Is it proper for her to clean you, Argan? I ought to provide a male servant for that.”
“Mother! We’ve had this discussion before. She’s fine and I do not want another servant. One is sufficient. To have two is indulgent.” Argan used the word as he’d heard it often enough at the dining table. His mother was always using it to justify her reluctance to spend more than was absolutely necessary. “And I don’t know what you mean by is it proper? What do you mean, mother?”
Isbel pursed her lips. “A young girl like that touching you. You’re growing up fast and are now more of a young man than a boy. She might make – inappropriate moves. I would not countenance that sort of thing!”
Argan frowned. “What sort of thing?” He knew full well what his mother was implying, but he was at an age where grown-ups were not sure how much a twelve year old knew or was supposed to know. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Isbel waved her hands in dismissal. “Go and get yourself ready.” She watched as he shrugged and went on his way towards his room, three doors down. She returned to her room and slammed it shut. Alone she could give vent to her frustrations. She’d just finished composing a letter when she’d seen Argan passing, and now she looked at it once more, making sure it was phrased properly and contained just what she wished. Satisfied she folded it and sealed it with her wax, then leaned back and sank into her chair, shutting her eyes.
She cursed her husband. Emperor he may be but that didn’t excuse his philandering. Their full-blown row that morning had been because she’d just found out about his affair with the Bragalese slave girl Metila in Turslenka. Astiras hadn’t even been sorry. He’d stood there and justified his actions as thanking her in the Bragalese way for saving Argan’s life. Isbel had not been in the slightest convinced, and she had threatened to leave, and he had boldly told her if that was what she wanted, then so be it. He would still be emperor and she would not be empress.
