An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Read online

  “Omir, my friend, I am hungry. We can speak of intrigues after we’ve eaten.”

  “I’m always hungry,” the fat turban chuckled; his cheeks growing with his jest. “Hungry for a great many things. My servants shall prepare a fine meal for us, to be sure.” Omir snapped his fingers and a groom ran to the kitchens to send word, while the others guided Sycarus and Tread inside the manor.

  They went up the stairs to the second floor, passed two other rooms and stood at a third. The servant opened the door and bowed, as Sycarus and his dwarfish companion entered. It was a fairly big chamber, with two beds facing on opposite sides and a tall window between them. The walls were made of simple stone bricks. As always, the marble is just for the outside eyes. That was nothing new. Seldom things in life were as they appeared, and Omir’s home was no different. Once they were alone, Tread put down the chest and began to unpack their things. Sycarus took the key he wore about his neck, and opened the lock. The wooden chest was filled with sovereigns.

  “A thousand gold pieces for a savage girl,” Sycarus told Tread, whilst scooping the coins with his right hand, and letting the round precious things slip between his fingers. They fell upon their many kindred; all precious and burnished. “The last bastion of civilization in the far west... There’s nothing here except barren deserts, carrion birds, and desolating heat... apart from the Aharo tribes, of course.”

  During the Age of Glory, the Empire of the Sunborn had dominion over much of the known earth. The Empire received tribute from many countries – including the Aharo tribes – from the people east of the Alpians and from the merchant kings of the Lowlands. The Age of Glory began long after the landing of the First Sunborn, whose name was lost in the dark times of antiquity. His hosts from old Galinthea were many, souls of different ancestry, but familiar tongues – hearts eager to enlighten and conquer.

  The histories claimed the Unnamed Conqueror to be the scion of the gods... of the Sun Father and Twin Moon Mothers. The words of the Conqueror read, ‘I Am Sunborn.’ He had united all the lands west of the Alpians under the true faith, after driving out the warring barbarian tribes, heathens, worshipers of blood gods. He had brought the light of civilization upon a benighted realm. He had buried statues of false idols and altars of bloody sacrifice beneath courts of law and marble stone. His children founded the dynasty of Mero. The greatest of houses it became. And fate was indeed ironic, that the Conqueror’s name became lost to the minds and parchments of history...

  Fate is ever the cruel japemaster, Sycarus told himself, remembering the stories lord Abelbrooke used to tell him when he was only a boy. A vagabond with the rare luck of being taken into a lord’s household – pulled away from a commoner’s life of ignorance and raised into a most useful profession. Enough of histories, ancient and recent. I came here on an errand, and I’ll see it through. Sycarus closed the chest, locked it, and hid the key beneath his tunic.

  After a while, someone knocked at their door. A small black skin girl came into their chambers, head bowed and holding a plate. She could have been no more than ten and one, he thought. The girl’s pale ochre hair shone faintly in the window’s light. And a soft voice came from her full lips. “My lord, the master sent me to tell you that the table is ready. The food I bring is for your squire. Master Omir says he will eat with you alone.”

  “Alone?” Sycarus arched an eyebrow. “Very well. Tread, you’ll eat here. Try not to let too many crumbs fall to the floor. You know our host is obsessed with cleanliness.” Tread nodded without frowning. Huh, she called me a lord and him a squire. At least she didn’t call him a dwarf.

  “Don’t worry, my lord. I will clean everything that needs be cleaned.”

  Sycarus chuckled at that. “As you say, child. You do have a lovely soft voice. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “No, my lord.” She curled her lips into a shy smile. If anyone else had told her that, most likely it hadn’t been a man of high station; but in truth neither was he.

  I’m just a very fortunate lowborn. “Alright then, take me to your... master’s table.”

  That word was always bitter for him to utter. But then again, this wasn’t the Old World; it was Sand’s Port. Though formerly part of the Empire, the city enjoyed a silent and proficient autonomy from all things political. The Sun Throne was but a great voice among many others here. It was the sole hub of safe and free commerce in the western fringe. And that freedom allowed in all goods... including slaves.

  After the meal, Omir and Sycarus started talking about commerce, the flow of spices and wares, corruption, new trade routes; and of course, piracy. Omir spoke at length about the rising occurrences of smuggling. Unlawful dealings meant smaller profits for the city, and as such, smaller profits for the Crown and all the other factions – the patron countries which shouldered the costs of commerce in order to yield good rates.

  “I need more men with swords, or more gold with which to hire sellswords. We would see more money in tariffs, thus. But corruption works both ways. Every man is greedy and everyone is greedier in Sand’s Port. The sight of these barren sands, which surround the city, inspires a man’s thoughts to impropriety and deceit.” Omir nodded faintly – eyes wondering, while he scratched his cheek with his golden ring. “But enough of such vexing matters. Tell me... how is the emperor, my friend?”

  Before Sycarus could reply to that, the same servant girl entered the room, bringing hot spiced wine. At her sight, Omir’s eyes seemed to sparkle. With what notion, I wonder. The fat man smiled, as he traced the golden ring across his clean-shaved cheek. There’s only one thing that makes him smile like that. And that thing is greed.

  After the girl finished serving their drinks, the fat turban took her by the arm and sat her on his knee. He dangled his fat short fingers across her ochre head, and squeezed her shoulder. “Look at this one, my friend. Isn’t she a beauty for her age?”

  “She is,” replied Sycarus.

  “You wouldn’t have known it, if you saw how she was before I bought her. Dusty, filthy, underfed, without a shred of manners.” Omir giggled. “But she learnt her place and serves here well. A beautiful name I’ve given her also, unlike her street rat name. What was it, girl? Little crow or pitch rat?”

  “Pitch mouse. It was pitch mouse, master.”

  “Ugly name, isn’t it? Thus, I gave her an exotic one. I’ve named her Akilah; though, I’m certain she’ll take on a more seductive name at the brothel. After she has her first flowering, she’s going to fetch me a good sum. I grin in anticipation to that.”

  Sycarus grabbed the wine-cup, and thought as he drank. I pity the poor girl. If I am to do her a kindness, though; I should encourage the fat bastard to take care of his investment. That way her service under this roof might be made easier, at least before she’s sold into a whore’s life. “Yes, my friend. You’ve got yourself quite the little treasure there. If I were you, I’d see that no harm comes to her. No harm of any sort.”

  The fat turban nodded in agreement. “Hehe, of course. Go on now, child; we have no further use for you. Right, where were we? Oh yes, I asked you about the welfare of emperor Hagyai. Do share whatever news you have of him.”

  “No doubt you’ve heard the rumors, Omir. In spite of his young age, the man’s sickly. Nobody knows what his affliction is. Alas, fate is what it is. I’m confident he’ll reign for many more years to come.”

  “Heh, I’m not that confident, my friend. Though truth be told, I don’t put much faith in vile rumors either. But tell me, how fares the heir to the throne? More healthy than his father, I hope. And what of empress Hellena? Is she content with her husband’s spirits?”

  “I know not. My visit to Castle Spire was at the emperor’s behest; I’m sure lord Abelbrooke had something to do with it. The chancellor and him enjoy cordial bonds. Alas, I didn’t have the time nor the inclination to study the imperial court. Its intrigues are best left alone; I am, after all, but a humble servant. So let’s talk on the matter at hand.
I must take an Aharo girl, a chieftain’s own blood, back to the capital. The emperor himself desires such a maiden for prince Yoffis, his one and only heir...”

  After hearing of his true purpose, the fat turban struggled for a good moment to utter a response. “The emperor’s request leaves me bewildered, friend Sycarus. He means to rekindle that old custom, does he? A most strange decision... Doesn’t he remember what happened with the last Aharo empress? That one nearly killed the entire bloodline.”

  “It’s not our place to judge the motives. He gave me a chest filled with gold sovereigns, which I must trade for a chieftain’s own daughter. It’s the man’s desire and command. And it’s my duty to obey and carry out the wish of his imperial majesty.”

  The fat turban narrowed his eyes and nodded; conceding the point. “I see. Well, then... perchance I need to enlighten you on the histories between the desert tribes and the Sunborn emperors?”

  “I must confess, I don’t know much of that,” replied Sycarus.

  Omir cleared his throat before speaking. “During the Age of Glory, the Aharo chieftains – owing fealty to the Sun Throne and without wealth to pay in tribute – they gave their daughters. And the emperors accepted; taking the girls as paramours to keep their chambers warm and their true wives at rest. But after the Age of Glory descended into the dark times of famines, upheavals, and heresies... the fealty of the desert tribes was lost. And many other oaths were lost, as well.”

  Omir took another sip of wine to wet his dry lips. “If you are to travel the desert and meet the tribesfolk, you must remember a couple of things. Aharos don’t have classes. They are free people. And they only recognize leaders, those who are able to prove the right of their words through the might and skill of their arms...”

  The fat turban coughed again, only slowly this time and continued. “The Aharos worship the Sky Father, the Shepherd of birds and clouds. To them, the sun, and moons, and stars are but parts of a greater whole, which is the sky – that vast world above which no man can reach. They are a people of savage honor, but honor nonetheless. And it is said, that all their children come about as healthy, strong, and quick.” Omir sipped the last of his wine.

  “Sand’s Port regularly trades with the desert tribes through our caravans. But they keep their women only for their eyes to see. They are quite a Patriarchal culture, as you would imagine. Yet they enjoy the bounty of our trade; wyvern teeth in exchange for food and seeds, for cloth and wood, leather and steel.” Omir ordered one of his menials to bring him such an object; the feral remnant of an extinct species of beasts.

  Sycarus eyed the queer thing with keen interest. The wyvern tooth was greyish and covered with thin stripes of black. It had a curved shape, like that of a lion’s fang; but it was much smaller. “Evil looking thing,” Sycarus breathed.

  “They are also quite hard, my friend. They make for fine arrow heads or spear tips. And like all bones, they are said to bring good luck. Many interested collectors pay good money for them; money that goes into the pockets of adventurous merchants.”

  “That’s all good to know, but I require a guide who knows the tribesmen.”

  Omir gave a shrug. “You’ll find several such guides about the city square, where the merchant guilds lie. Trade with the desert tribes happens on agreed occasions. And those merchants and their caravans who deal with them are bound to leave in thirteen days and thirteen nights; if I recall exactly. And when they do, they’ll be met half way by the tribesmen. As any proud people, the Aharos are not fond of outlanders straying too close to their settlements.”

  Thirteen days and nights? No. That’s too much time to waste in this place, with all its dry air and scorching sun. “I won’t wait that long, Omir. I want to hasten this journey. So I plan to commit to this endeavour... to leave for the sands the very next day. On the morrow, I’ll look for guides myself; then I shall leave your city. A thousand gold pieces for a chieftain’s own daughter, my friend. And on my return, I shall leave Sand’s Port and take the Aharo maiden directly to the Sun Throne, to the emperor himself.”

  Sycarus stood up, thanked the fat turban for his hospitality; and left the dining room.

  He went up the stairs to the second floor, and entered his chambers. Tread was sleeping on his back and most likely dreaming. For he was brushing his lips together – as if murmuring something inside his mind. Are a mute’s thoughts louder than those of other men, or are they just as silent? Looking at the window, he saw the dim yellow light, which crept inside from the city’s torches. I hope all that wine will give me a sleep of rest, not of torment, he said to himself; but he was wrong. Sycarus dreamt his nightmare again that night – only this time it was different...

  In the eerie gloom, he was surrounded by shattered walls and sundered stone. The destroyed architecture about him was a sad sight for his eyes. The ruins were oppressive and wretched, like the spines of giants given a profane death. Broken skulls lay strung on iron chains, and a sinister breath was in the air, holding everything still and stygian. What is this place? What happened here? He found no answer to those questions. But once again, Sycarus felt eyes roaming upon his flesh. There was something behind the darkness, beneath it... something that was glaring at him with hunger and thirst. And the whispers caught life again. The queer words made no sense to his ears; but the voices, the tones... they weren’t human. With all his strength, Sycarus shouted against the emptiness around him.

  “Who’s there!? I know there’s someone there! Show yourself!” Show yourselves, he wanted to say... but didn’t muster the courage. The elusive creatures ceased their whispers, and they gave him no reply. Instead, the broken columns, the ruined walls, the rubble beneath his feet – all of it started to melt, the dream to fade.

  When Sycarus opened his eyes, he found himself damp. Everything else inside the chamber was still and silent; even Tread wasn’t snoring anymore. “Ah, cursed nightmares. What use are dreams if one cannot make sense of them?” Sycarus wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. And after moments of contemplating the chamber’s gloom, empty thoughts chasing one another... the night’s rest settled over him. And the sleep that followed was dreamless.

  The next day, he awoke rested, though his bones would have enjoyed a few more hours in bed. They were brought the morning meal by a different servant, and not the little girl. Him and Tread broke their fast in silence. Omir had provided both of them with proper desert clothing – long thobes; long all the way to the ankles, made from black goat wool. The fabric was loosely woven and light, permitting the breeze to flow.

  And thus, he was ready to pace the city square in search for those willing to cross him the desert, all the way to the tribesfolk. However, Sycarus went alone – for his dwarfish companion had disappeared in the manor’s privy, after the two of them broke their fast. Once at the market square, a stand of jewels and trinkets caught his attention. The stones weren’t that pricy, and Sycarus discerned a favorite – an amber pendant with the wings of a butterfly trapped inside. He put up the coin and bought the thing; then returned to his purpose.

  The search lasted for about an hour, until Sycarus found guides willing to take him to his business; and then settled on the price. The two men were traders, traders who awaited for their suppliers to send them the goods needed for heading their caravan westward. But that wouldn’t happen for many days; therefore, they took him on the offer.

  Manyo was fat, grey bearded, and he had a way with words. “Our camels are filled with water; but the sands are hot and the air dry. You shall have to pay for our supplies and that of our beasts, as well.”

  “Aye,” Jodser echoed his fat friend. Like his partner in business, Jodser was bearded also; unlike Manyo, he was frail. But both of them seemed versed enough in their trade.

  The two men showed Sycarus their map of the Desertlands, and Sycarus chose the closest oasis out of the several ones depicted on the parchment. Every tribe had its own small patch of green, and the great barren sand
s marked their borders. They would have to travel four days, and on the fifth they would reach the tribesmen.

  Sycarus smiled. “Agreed, good sirs. Let us shake hands on it, for we leave at once.”

  When they returned to the fat turban’s manor, Tread had managed to get himself a sickness of the bowels. The man couldn’t get off the chamber pot, on account of his watery feces.

  “One with loose bowels is not fit to travel anywhere, much less this desert.” Manyo the guide said then. “The traveler needs his water to stay inside him, not come out at the other end every moment or so. If the short man values his life, he will not make this journey.” Jodser chuckled in accord, as did Omir.

  “Fret not, my friend,” the fat turban told him. “Your companion may remain here at my manor, until you return. But don’t expect me to provide him with any sort of distractions. He’ll get three light meals a day, and bath water just enough to clean his private parts. In this city, water is most precious, and even more so in mine own house.”

  Then it was all agreed and everything was made ready for the journey. The chest was locked, he had the key hidden upon himself. And he felt quite comfortable seated upon the camel’s saddle, and wearing the black thobe. The journey was at hand. Sycarus thought of uttering a silent prayer for the road, but that seemed foolish – an empty superstition. He had seldom prayed in his life; and likewise, he believed the gods to be seldom good and just. But when the tall gates of Sand’s Port slowly opened before his eyes, what he saw beyond them was a horizon so terribly vast. And the only movements were those of heat ripples, which coursed upward from the far away ground, as if with liquid life... a life of emptiness. And death, he thought.

  And with such a view before him, of the world that lay ahead, the uttering of a small prayer to the gods for safe passage seemed not that foolish after all. The only question in his mind was to whom he should utter it... to the Three or to the Sky Father, the god who ruled over these lands? “I think I’ll pray to all of them,” Sycarus spoke in low breath, as his mount carried him past the city gates, toward the road of sand.