Prince of Wrath (5 page)

Argan’s nose began to bleed again. He knew it was bleeding because of the now familiar runny feeling he got moments before the blood began dripping down across his lips and chin and onto the ground, or his clothes. He guessed it would happen because he’d had yet another headache earlier that day. Ever since he’d fallen off the ladder coming down off the palace roof back in the winter he’d had headaches, and other aches and pains. The headaches usually heralded another nose bleed.

“Oh, Argan!” his mother, the Empress Isbel, exclaimed, as Argan turned to her, his eyes wide and pleading for help, his hand clamping onto his nose. She was quickly to his aid, a cloth at the ready. She brushed his hand aside and practically smothered the child’s nose, pinching hard. Argan’s hands flapped ineffectually, as he fought to breathe through the thick white cloth. His mother was too enthusiastic in helping her seven-year-old son at times, but it normally stopped the bleeding. “We’re going to have to have a word with the apothecary about this. It’s happening far too often!”

“Mmm-mmmm—mmmphh!” Argan spluttered through the cloth. He had meant to say the apothecary was no good but the words had been too muffled. Besides, he knew with weary resignation, once his mother made her mind up about something, nothing short of the gods would change it. He’d found that out to his cost over the past few years. He glanced over his mother’s wrist at the table cloth, now spotted with his blood. His plate was still there but the contents were in danger. His brother, Istan, was making a move to steal his food, yet again.

Istan, three years younger than Argan, used every opportunity to take food from Argan. It was a surprise he wasn’t as fat as a fantor, the legendary monstrous beast from the West that some said existed, yet most refused to believe. To that end, Argan had secretly renamed Istan Fantor-Face. Now he saw Fantor-Face’s hand sneaking across, reaching for Argan’s slice of herd-beast. Argan’s left hand came slamming down, pinning his brother’s arm to the table.

Istan screamed in surprise, then outrage. His other hand swung hard and caught Argan in the face, narrowly missing his mother’s hand. Isbel screamed, then forgot about Argan and took hold of Istan by the arm and dragged him away from the table. Istan yelled. “Lea’ me ‘lone, lea’ me ‘lone!”

“Istan!” Isbel said sternly to him, waving a very severe finger at him. “How many times do I have to tell you to behave? You do not try to take someone else’s food!”

Argan held the cloth to his face with one hand, and with his other rubbed the ache on the side of his face where Fantor-Face had smacked him. He felt like crying, but he would not in front of the horrible Istan. At least he’d saved his meat. Once the pain had gone and the blood stopped, he would continue eating.

The others at the table had stopped, watching as Isbel dressed the scowling Istan down in front of them all. Argan looked at the people who were waiting for the Empress to re-seat herself. Next to Argan, on the other side from his mother, was his half-sister Amne. Amne was soon to be married and was the second child of Emperor Astiras, Argan’s father. Amne was blonde, blue-eyed and thought by many to be very beautiful. Argan didn’t know what made a woman beautiful, but if most said so, then she must be. What he did know was that Amne was wonderful, standing up for him and being secretly naughty with him, like sneaking into the Map-Room or sending letters to their father stopping the Empress dismissing Argan’s best friend Kerrin and his father, Panat, from the palace for what the Empress saw as Kerrin’s fault for the falling accident.

Then there was the fat tutor, Mr Sen, who knew lots of things. Mr Sen was fond of his food, Argan had decided, and was peering over his face-spectacles at the scene with disapproval. Argan often got that from Mr Sen if he got a lesson wrong. Mr Sen was teaching Argan lots of things, like languages and mathematics or even how to fight a battle. Argan liked those lessons the best because then they would use the war figures Argan had.

Sat next to Mr Sen was Vosgaris. Vosgaris was Argan’s friend, too. He was the Captain of the Palace Guard, and Argan felt sorry for him, because he always seemed to be in his mother’s bad books. Mother often spoke crossly to him and Vosgaris seemed to go red in the face whenever he met his mother. He went a little red when Amne spoke to him, too, but Amne never seemed to be cross with Vosgaris.

Then there were the others at the end of the table. Lalaas, the hunter, who was Amne’s guard. Lalaas had told Argan all about how to hunt and spot the different animal tracks since he’d come to the palace. Argan liked Lalaas but he wasn’t as friendly as Vosgaris, although Amne seemed to like him lots.

Then there was Istan’s tutor, Gallis. Gallis used to be a priest, or so his mother had told him, but had lost the gods. That was silly, Argan reasoned. How could you lose the gods when they were everywhere? He would just have to look that bit harder. Maybe his eyesight was getting bad. He supposed one day he’s have to wear face-spectacles like Mr Sen. Gallis was beginning to get to his feet. He had dealt with the bad-tempered Istan for a little while now, making him behave.

Isbel waved Gallis back to his seat, then ordered Istan to sit back down with the warning that if he tried another bad thing like stealing food he would be sent to his room. Istan threw himself into his seat and sulked. He decided that Argan was always being favoured by mother. He didn’t know why, since Argan was a softie. Princes should be strong. Argan would never be a good prince. His father was Emperor and he was going to be, too.

Isbel looked at the assembled diners. “I’m sorry about that. Please continue.” She then returned her attention to the silently seated Argan, quietly waiting for her to resume her ministrations. The nose was still bleeding but the flow had slowed to a trickle. The cloth was more red than white now, and she clucked her tongue in dismay. “Oh, Argan,” she said softly, “what are we going to do about your nose?”

Argan smiled at her, his face smeared with blood. Isbel’s heart jumped. He had such an engaging smile. One day some woman would fall head over heels in love with that grin. Perhaps it would be young Velka Varaz, the daughter of the noble family who had been introduced to him a short while back? She would have to write to them requesting another meeting. The first hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped, but that was down to Argan getting Velka filthy in the garden. The next time it would be in summer and in a place that would not happen again.

“Why does it bleed, mother?” he asked, his voice distorted through the cloth.

“I don’t know, Argan, but we’ll have to find out. The apothecary needs to know its happened again.”

Argan nodded. Isbel was concerned. Ever since that fall Argan had been subdued. The broken leg had affected him getting about of course, but the headaches and bleeding were more of a concern. The leg was healing, the bleeding was not.

Amne placed her cutlery in the centre of her plate and leaned over, taking hold of the almost useless cloth. “Alright, mother, I’ve got him now. You eat your supper. I’ve finished.”

Isbel was about to object, but Amne’s eyes held her for the moment. She was genuinely concerned for her younger half-brother. Isbel knew the two got on famously together, and to some degree she disliked that; both for the fact they encouraged each other’s mischievousness, and also out of jealousy. Isbel and Amne didn’t see eye to eye on many things and it had been the cause of recent antagonism between them, and why Argan seemed to prefer the company of Amne, who was not the best role model, escaped her. “Thank you,” she said and allowed her step-daughter to take over the care of the young boy.

As she glanced across the table she saw Vosgaris’ eyes fixed on Amne’s open tunic top. She cleared her throat and caught his eye. The stern look of disapproval caused the captain to turn red and he bent to examine his plate instead of Amne’s cleavage. The others were busy eating, except Lalaas who rolled his eyes and tried to send a placatory look to the Empress, but Isbel wasn’t in the mood to be mollified. Her look was enough to make Lalaas find his meal more interesting.

Amne called for a glass of water and a servant brought one. Amne dunked a new cloth in it and began to clean the mess up. Argan smiled at her, his eyes bright. Amne smiled back. She hoped that when she had a child after her marriage, that he or she would be like Argan. She certainly hoped it would not inherit her husband-to-be’s humourless traits. By the gods, she’d teach the child to have some spark. Elas Pelgion may be well thought of as a future governor or general, but as a marriage partner he was not what she would wish for. Still, there were some advantages, and she would fight hard to make sure they came about.

“Now, Argan, that’s better. No getting excited, you promise?” she asked, leaning over him, displaying more cleavage. Vosgaris’ head bent even lower a few seats away.

Lalaas thought he was going to eat directly off the plate if he carried on like this. There was only one thing to do about his new friend. It may not be the best thing to do, but by the gods the captain needed help. They had begun as rivals, but Lalaas had quickly realised that befriending the palace guard commander would be the best thing for him, since he had none here in the palace.

Amne returned to her seat, looking at Lalaas for a moment. The former hunter returned her look blandly. Amne smiled briefly before accepting her dessert from a hovering servant. She wasn’t oblivious to the way men looked at her, and to be honest she enjoyed the attention – the mischievous side of her made it appealing. Ever since returning from the diplomatic mission to neighbouring Mazag she’d realised that she was desirable to men, and would use that to her advantage. She was a princess and that made her untouchable to all but one, the betrothed Elas Pelgion, so she felt safe in flaunting her femininity. That was the cause of the friction between the Empress and her, but Amne thought she could handle her. So far she had.

As the diners broke up, Lalaas waited for Vosgaris. Vosgaris was also Argan’s guardian, while Lalaas escorted Amne. Before their respective charges reached them, Lalaas leaned close to the captain. “When we’re off-duty, I want to have a talk in the canteen.”

Vosgaris looked surprised, then nodded. Argan would soon be sent to bed and then he could relax. Lalaas wouldn’t be that much longer, since Amne generally had time alone in her chambers after supper.

So it was a short while later that Lalaas wandered into the dining area of the barracks attached to the rear of the palace. Vosgaris was already enjoying a cool ale and indicated a spare chair for the princess’s bodyguard. Other soldiers were relaxing having a drink or eating their evening meals. Vosgaris sat away from them, at one end which was reserved for the officers. The men did not mix with their superiors.

Lalaas waved to the barkeep before sitting down wearily. Part of his temporary duties now included teaching Argan the finer points of swordplay, while his normal martial tutor, Panat Afos, was suspended awaiting the Emperor’s reply to Amne’s letter. Amne had pointed out to Argan that Panat had been appointed by the Emperor, not the Empress, and therefore their mother could not dismiss the man and his son without the agreement of their father. Isbel had flown into a rage at her perceived undermining of her authority by Amne, but Panat and Kerrin were still in the palace, albeit almost under a state of house arrest. Argan and Kerrin had not been allowed to see one another since the accident.

“Tiring day,” Vosgaris commented, regarding his friend.

“Boring, more like,” Lalaas replied. “This palace posting is driving me mad. I’m a hunter, a scout. I work best outdoors, not stuck in here minding my manners and bowing to whoever may suddenly pop along from out of nowhere.”

Vosgaris nodded. “I gave up my post as militia commander to be here. Sometimes I wonder whether it’s been the right move. Better pay, yes, but I’m walking on eggshells, especially around the Empress. She’s very touchy of late.”

“She’s not getting on with Amne,” Lalaas commented, then fell silent as the barkeep brought his ale on a wooden tray. Lalaas thanked him and took a mouthful of the cool liquid. “Ah! That’s better! The ale’s better here, too, don’t you think? Better than the equine urine they dish up elsewhere.”

Vosgaris grinned, then became thoughtful. “What do you think will come of this atmosphere between the Empress and the Princess? I don’t know how to sort it out.”

“It’s not your place to do so. Keep your nose out of it. You’re in charge of security. What worries me more is poor Argan’s bleeding. Every time it happens he seems less well, haven’t you noticed? It gets his mother all of a fluster too, and reminds her of who she sees as being responsible. Ah, what a mess!”

The palace guard captain had to agree. “He’s just about the best of the lot of them, young Argan. Istan’s a poisonous piece of work. Whoever ends up in charge of his martial training is going to have a tough task, isn’t he?”

“Hmmm. As long as it isn’t me. Someone told me it’s your birthday coming up, Vosgaris old fellow. The next sevenday, isn’t it? How many is that now? Twenty-four?”

“Twenty-five. My family has invited me back to the estate to celebrate.” Vosgaris looked a little gloomy. “I have a feeling mother is going to try to push that awful girl from the next estate on me. She mentions her every time she writes.”

“Isn’t she worth marrying?”

Vosgaris pulled a face. “Ugh! It’s not that she’s ugly or anything – she’s actually a reasonably good looking woman – but she has a really irritating laugh and is as wet as a Pelponian autumn.”

“Oh,” Lalaas looked in sympathy at his friend. “So you’re not enthusiastic, then. Well, old boy, as long as you’re single and unattached you’re going to get that sort of thing, and you’re at the age when you nobles tend to get hitched. Continue the family name and all that.”