General Garrera was very excited when he walked out of his personal chambers that Thursday evening, but he was a stout man, thus his repression of this feeling on his countenance. He was immediately flanked by his two bodyguards whom he really didn't need, as well as his courier, or undersecretary, or both. All four paced out and bungled into a chaise waiting outside. The Korazin flag above it was the symbol that distinguished it from other horse drawn carriages, and that's why the soldiers at the entrance (or exit) from these military premises saluted the carriage when it rolled out. But the carriage didn't turn left at the end of the lane towards Antelope Hill in Chaldea the capital, where the General's own home was situated. It turned southward and joined the road that culminated in Oreum, one of the frontier towns at the border with Goldora. Besides it was a long journey there, seeing that the military chambers were in the capital of Chaldea, miles far from the border. Obviously the general wasn't going to any of the barren villages in between here and Oreum. None of them suited his reputation.
The carriage drew much attention around the very sparsely populated fishing villages, especially because of the time of day it was travelling through these areas. Not many aristocrats would love to skulk around near the Goldoran border, seeing that the ancient bad blood between Korazin and Goldora still had some residue in the frontier territories. The carriage was moving full speed ahead when it went through S'ia, but as it approached Oreum, the carriage turned away from the main road into a feeder road going into Vixen's Creek, a little frontier settlement. At the corner, the slim courier, with a stack of paper, exited the carriage and a few minutes later mounted a horse brought to him by a boy. It was at last light that the carriage came to a halt outside a shack at the periphery of the settlement. Garrera opened it himself and went in, while as usual the bodyguards planted their sturdy structures at the door.
It was a dimly lit shack, with a hammock between two walls and a rickety table next to it. One tall lad with a disheveled beard sat there, sipping away at local brew. He didn't change his movements when the General came in, nor did he look up. Garrera disdainfully looked him over and took a seat opposite the man. And said nothing too. The tall man sipped another mouthful with a gurgle, took a deep breath and eventually broke the silence,
'The package?'
'Tell Tao to rally his troops. The old man will fall soon, and don't ask for specifics, as you are not fit to listen to them,' said Garrera, intentionally being austere because the tall thing wasn't a military man like himself, 'the men on this side are ready.'
'The easternmost frontier will cause little trouble for us. Our reconnaissance showed it's less guarded than the other three along the border,' intuited the tall man. He didn't allow himself to be irritated by Garrera's taunts.
'It's less guarded so why bother with it,' Garrera spat back quickly, 'you don't mean to say the Goldoran troops cant engage a few scraggy little boys posted at the frontiers do you?' he too grabbed himself a drink, 'and, it's a faster route to the capital.'
'Very well. Now what about the rest of them.'
'We only need to capture the heir. The Queen Mother can't sit on the throne in Korazin.'
'Well get it done with. Get rid of them all before the final part of the plan.'
Garrera was already making for the door. He didn't want to waste any more time with this minion, seeing that Tao hadn't offered to meet him in person.
Into the carriage he went, full speed ahead. The tall man, who had to crane his neck to exit the shack, watched the carriage disappear before he himself mounted a horse and made for the opposite direction. This little town was sparsely populated, such that his horse was almost the only thing moving on the road. He galloped through the little bungalows. From here he could see a long way ahead of him where the path continued on into a grassland. But he turned off road, descending into an adjacent valley. The night came on very quickly. By the time he heard the torrent of the river down below he could hardly make out a thing, so he guided himself with the rippling water. An artificial forest here killed most of the light remaining in the skies, and there was no path to follow, so he carefully maneuvered with his horse through the undergrowth till he came to the bank of the river. The waters at this point were shallow enough for him to cross, and then he had to track upward on a path that he clearly knew. He spent close to an hour making his way till he came to an area with a few buildings once more. Far off into the distance, through the devilish quiet and gloom, the lights of the frontier's Castle Aulint. He allowed a sinister smirk to curve on his face, and he made way to go around the fortifications, though he could have easily gone through the exercise at the border because he had the necessary documentation.
The palace at Chaldea, the Korazite capital, was situated close to the northern gates of the city, atop the highest hill such that its magnificence could be beheld from a long distance southward throughout the city, which was tilted somewhat southeast. But the magnificence wasn't of the usual dose tonight. There was a certain dullness about its ambience. The two massive columns either side of it, atop of which were humongous fires kept burning incessantly with fire and brimstone, except in the case of the king's very close proximity with the Grim Reaper, were dim tonight. The fires had not been fed, and the smoke resulting from the dying embers had overtaken the large fires. And that's why those who were within sight of the palace were in such a foul mood tonight. The King's bad health is not something they were accustomed to, especially not with such a young lad on the throne—he was a mere 73. The palace was like the heart of Chaldea, so its inactivity was akin to a heart attack. The markets were almost empty, the houses of merriment were dull, even the dark alleys of the city's vagabonds and debauched fellows were not as frightening as they should be. Mothers had prevented the boys from playing about, and girls from mongering in the markets. All Chaldea was paying tribute to their king, to his health. In fact, the palace storerooms were full to the brim, full of the generosity of the loyal subjects. The King Caspar von Balian was the love of the town. He had established himself at the hearts of the citizens; it was he who rode to the Moon Province to help smash the rebellion of Belteshar, and thus earned that country's unconditional support. It was he who refurbished this city and glamorized its high walls. It was he who discovered the massive gold reserve in the lowly eastern districts of Vellet and Worsey, and thus fortified Korazin's economic prowess, especially in reply to the Goldorans, who had a long belligerent history against the sovereign of Korazin.
The chief magistrate of Korazin was in the room where the king lay like a sack, with the rest of the royal family. The Crown Prince K'rar was standing by the door, less gloomy than the rest of them. He was only 13 years old, the prince, and could not really endorse the fact that his father would most certainly perish before long—it's what the apothecaries had predicted—and so began the mourning early. Grandmother Haran was going on and on about how a child should not die before their parents. The Queen, his mother, was holding her crying face in her hands in the embrace of her sister. The king had already implored them to quit mourning and prepare for the future of Korazin, but they wouldn't have it. All seven members in the room were sick with terror. The king at long last, called the boy forward, and took his hand. It was still warm, but frail. This, even the young child could tell. Some veins were showing. His face was pale as a sheet, and his grey hairs had increased in number. By the look of things, the apothecaries' prognosis was not even necessary. With and even frailer voice, the king asked for privacy with his son, and everyone except Queen Noor-shan left the room.
'I've been diagnosed with something no one knows, son. But it will truly kill me.' He said. K'rar said nothing, so he went on, 'they are investigating possible poisoning.'
'I know, father.'
'You will be king now. The youngest king to ever sit on the throne of this great nation.'
'Ashdud thinks someone's plotting to assassinate you,' the boy said point blank, and caught everyone's attention.
'If it be so, then you will be charged with finding him as your first act.'
'So you believe someone is plotting to kill you.'
'A king doesn't just eat poisoned food, son.'
Queen Noor-shan, who stood behind the boy, began to shake her head in disagreement with the king's choice of words. But the old man maintained it, and went on,
'This is no longer about me, son. You will be king in a few days' time. They will want to remove all hindrances to your throne, whoever they are. That means you and your mother.' He was very stern saying the next words, 'Ashdud will be your shield. Use him.'
K'rar was unsure if he'd understood, but he didn't need anyone to explain that these words were dead serious. He excused himself from the lot and set about finding Ashdud, whom he found stationed in an adjacent room, chatting with fellow servants of the king. Ashdud was the king's contemporary, a 56-year-old friend and servant of the monarch, who trusted him with his son's life. The son, too, had warmed up to the old man, and he loved him like a relative. Ashdud had posterity, so he was good with children. He was a seasoned soldier, and a mentor of many, who would have served longer in the armed forces of the nation, but seeing that Queen Noor-Shan had appointed him as godfather of the boy, he had accepted his current employment with open arms, and began to train the boy in many ways early.
Now Ashdud pulled away from the group to attend to K'rar.
'Father will die,' said K'rar to the old man, 'he knows.'
'Don't say that. He hasn't—'
'I have to find who did this, Ash. Quickly, who do you suspect could be capable of something like this?'
Ashdud could see that the boy was also resigned to his father's fate, so he dropped the empathy act. Besides, in Ashdud's assessment, the boy was no spring chicken. He was ahead of his time.
'Permission to speak honestly, my lord.' He said, and got a curt look from the prince, prompting him to continue, 'in the history of nations, the heirs to the throne of their kingdom are usually the ones with the means and reason to do something like this. So it's difficult where to begin in our case, my lord.'
The prince had a long pause to ponder that intelligence, before he started back toward the sick bay. He walked past the handful of very sad bodies in the room, and stood over his father's limp body. His eyes were closed, so the boy aroused him and said,
'Father. Who would want to take the throne from you except your heir?'
The old man's laugh turned into a sickly, dry cough,
'My heir is 13 years old, and has no siblings. There are few people who would want the throne, and they want it not only because they could and managed to poison me, but also because you are young and an only child, so they can deal with you.'
'I think this has a military element to it,' the prince said quickly. Of all the things he had learned already in his 13 years, he was more predisposed to military education and military topics. He knew that this attack on his father was more likely to be orchestrated by a military man rather than a fat-bellied aristocrat on a bed of roses on the Two Humps hill.
'This is in your hands now, my son. You have help. Use it.'
The Korazin royal palace comprised two conjoined main structures and other auxiliary buildings. All had been placed strategically on top of the Two Humps hill, the highest hill of seven in the city toward the North Gate. The royal residence neighbored other aristocrat residences, which had been built in the same villa along the city Chaldea's northeast side, so that the highborn did not freely mingle unnecessarily with the commoner who propped him up. But that was an aristocratic inside secret, and the commoner had no interest in them. The commoner was close to the King, and revered him to the foot. The commoner served to the pleasure of the King.
But not a dead one. On this cold morning the atmosphere carried with it a rotten foreboding. In fact, it made the air colder than usual, and the mood perfunctorily switched from ebullient to foul. All eyes around the city had a clear view of the palace. They also had a clear view of the large flag of Korazin waving over the castle in the palace's midrib, between the two fires. Today, the flag was waving at half-mast. And the waning tower fires were completely extinguished.
King Caspar von Balian was dead.
But that was good news to General Garrera, chief of the Southern Frontier Division of the Korazin Infantry. When the messenger arrived by night at the frontier town of Oreum with the summons for the General, the man had already rehearsed how he would act out his grief with the most malicious pretentiousness. Garrera was by occupation exiled in this southern hub to supervise the southern border, across which Korazin's mortal enemies, the nation of Goldora, sojourned. The Korazin-Goldora relationship was tainted with a bloody history, stretching back several hundred years that the original feud was largely unknown. But even this far into the future, neither of these nations was ever mild in its dealings with each other. That is why King Caspar von Balian of Korazin had appointed one of the best military minds in the land, General Garrera, as chief of Korazin's southern front. With him stationed at the border, those savage Goldorans would think twice before mobilizing against the sovereign kingdom of Korazin.
But the General's long stay here and the somehow more fluid relations between the two nations (they hadn't clashed in 12 years except for protracted push and shove that birthed tensions) had corrupted the big General's loyalties. General Garrera was with two other men and a woman in this small basement study of his state manor, a manor he had made his home, having served in this capacity for eight years now. But what the messenger did not know was that these three other people weren't about to mourn the King's death with Garrera. These ones were Goldoran. The messenger did not even look up at the intimidating man, nor did he look around. So Garrera's pretend face was for nothing, but he was glad he didn't have to keep it up for a longer time than he would have liked. The messenger had to reach other destinations as soon as possible, so he vanished from the room almost immediately, and Garrera turned to his companions. Garrera was hoisting the scroll in their faces. He was smiling. It was done.
'Success,' he said, and opened the scroll. He was right. He knew the rest of the letter's contents and wouldn't waste any more time reading it in full. So he handed it to the man to his left, a bald, tall thing with a disheveled beard, flat ears and a constantly twitching right eye.
'What are the orders?' that man asked, as he rose from his seat. The other man also rose. He too, was almost getting bald because the hair on his head was receding. But he was the average height, and was a bit stockier than his compatriot.
'Well, the same,' said Garrera, 'I will send more correspondence when the burial date is announced.'
'No I meant the other plan,' said the man.
Garrera was at first confused, but the other plan returned to his mind quickly,
'Oh, that,' he said, 'OK, let's do this. Fornals stays back until I get them to invite Tao, if I get them to invite Tao. Heltzer, you return home and tell the king to make preparations.'
'Aye, aye,' the long one was the one named Fornals. He proceeded to step out and travel home to Goldora, but Heltzer followed him, and explained that he was simply escorting him to the estuary. Fornals was going home to inform the king of Goldora to mobilize his invasion forces. Garrera was going north for the burial and to execute the other plan—to convince the Crown to invite Tao for the burial of King Caspar. And the woman in the room was blushingly looking at Garrera.
'Make me your Queen,' she said, 'when all this is done.' She also now got up from the chair, walked around it and sat on the table. She folded her skirt to reveal buxom thighs. Garrera just stood there like a stunted tree, his eyes pinned to those juicy legs. But he had hardly paced forward to tap into those riches when another knock came at the door, and cleaned out Garrera's eager promiscuity to restore his constant stern countenance. The voluptuous woman closed her thighs too with immediacy just before the knocker came in. it was Garrera's wife. The woman in the room quickly moved her eyes away, and pretended to be examining the walls, except there was nothing to examine. Garrera's wife was old. She was also experienced enough to spot the anomaly in the study, and composed enough to control the firestorm within her. So she simply said,
'Will we go?'
'Tomorrow,' said Garrera, 'tomorrow morning.'
'It's just midmorning,' said Lady Esella, 'we can still get there by tonight.'
'Is the burial to take place tonight?' Garrera added to this a tiny bit of austerity that only his wife would catch. But she was indifferent.
'If it is tomorrow,' she said, 'we'll miss it.'
'Calm down,' Garrera wasn't calm himself, 'we'll set off before daybreak. I don't know why they can't tell us the burial date in the first letter.'
'The heir decides that. He takes some time,' came the reply. It was not because Garrera was ignorant of that protocol. Lady Esella walked out, but not without a surreptitious glace at the other woman. She had hardly closed the door when Garrera said,
'Where were we?'
'She knows,' the woman said immediately. She was no longer in the mood, but that didn't deter the advance of the General, who now stood at zero distance, looking down into her worried face. Disappointed, he sighed with a shrug, saying,
'She doesn't know. It's just a little insecurity. We are alone in the room you know.'
'No,' said the woman, 'she knows.'
'Ah, how can you tell?'
'Because I'm a woman, Eton,' she said seriously. She was on first name basis, 'she can't know too much.'
'Okay, so what would you like me to do?'
'I'm not the army man,' she spat back, but knew better than to provoke the man she wanted to make her Queen, so she wore a second round of the seductive hormone almost immediately. Garrera fell for it. The woman went on, 'you have to deal with her at some point you know.'
'Honey, she is my wife. She can't just spontaneously disappear.'
'You can't make her disappear. Someone else can.'
He released her from his embrace and wore a furious frown,
'If you are suggesting that I sanction her murder…'
'Oh for fuck's sake,' the brief burst of Garrera's anger had been infectious enough, 'I said no such thing. Just get her out of your house. Out of the palace, somehow. Plant something that will make her unpopular. An outcast. That will be enough.'
But Garrera's own prospects would make him unpopular in both Korazin and the rest of the Moabian promontory.
'You think people will care which wife I take once I take the Crown? The people will be more interested in my head, not in her unfaithfulness.'
'Fine. So what will you do? She is an obstacle you know.'
'One thing at a time. Once the prince is dealt with, then we will deal with the rest, okay?'
Outside the door, lady Esella almost blew her cover by gasping for breath. She had, in her 39 years of life and 11 in marriage, seen and heard some terrible things, some of which she was even willing to endure, such as her husband's gruesome promiscuity, even his ironically evil plan to paint her skin with the color of his own sin. But an attempt to attack the Crown was way over the line. Garrera's side dish was right. She was an obstacle. She would in no way sanction her husband's horrible plan. So lady Esella scuttled away from the study's door, racing upstairs with vicious urgency. On the first landing she swerved right and almost collided with a maid girl.
'Ma'am?'
Lady Esella briefly peered back around the corner descending back to the corridor from whence she came to make sure no one was following. She looked like a spook, and the maid's face evidenced this.
'Listen, girl. Go upstairs and pack my bags. Don't tell anyone, just go and pack them. You should be done by the time I get there.' She was panting like a charging bull, and a charging bull doesn't entertain questions, so the maidservant was sure to run and execute her instructions as keenly as possible. Lady Esella resumed her frantic escape by storming the kitchen, where her personal attendant was preparing lunch. Everything living suddenly stopped, all eyes on her, holding the door ajar and standing askew through the opening. Her eyes shot straight for her attendant, Pithadia, who said,
'Ma'am?'
The ma'am beckoned her by moving her face left, and disappearing behind the door. The eyes in the kitchen moved this way and that searching for an answer on one of the faces, and Pithadia stepped out. Lady Esella suddenly took her by her slender arm, and said in a loud whisper,
'Go prepare yourself. We're leaving now.'
Pithadia knew about the King's death, but couldn't tell why it made her master so jittery, especially since the bad news had been expected for some time now.
'I thought we would go…'
'Pithadia?'
'Yes, ma'am.' And she disappeared from the scene. Now lady Esella went upstairs herself. She would have easily written a letter to warn the Crown, but with an explosive project like this being hatched in her house, mail had loopholes written all over it. This needed a living transmission. Her.
Pithadia's meager belongings took a few seconds to collect, and before lady Esella even reached her upstairs room, which she shared with her husband, Pithadia caught up with her. She was startled.
'Go to the carriage and get the driver. Tell him we're using the back gate.'
Now Pithadia's psyche was beginning to differentiate her master's frantic demeanor from the tragedy the entire realm was currently nursing. Something else was going on here. But Pithadia wasn't stupidly curious as to ask now. She descended back down the stairs quickly. Inside her majestic bedroom, the other maid was just starting on the second bag, and the third was empty.
'What the hell have you been doing?' lady Esella didn't notice the unnecessary scream in her words. She had frightened the maid, who timidly replied,
'Organizing the clothes, ma'am.'
'Just stuff them, don't waste time organizing,' said lady Esella. This command was extremely uncharacteristic. This maid also knew about the King's death, but she also knew that it wouldn't make lady Esella forget her womanhood. But lady Esella wasn't even finished. She added, referring to the bag that was already full, 'are these enough for a week?'
'I think so, ma'am.'
'Good. And my perfumes?'
'I was to put them in this one.'
'Put them in this. Quick.' As the maid did so, she went back to the door and peered outside for some moments during which the maid finished.
'Ma'am?'
'Bring them,' Lady Esella said, and led the way. She used the corridor to the east, which would take them down the bathrooms and ultimately to a backdoor that was never opened. The maid closely followed, but soon lost pace because of her load. When Lady Esella looked back from the corner, she was several paces back. The esteemed Lady immediately turned back and proceeded to aid the maid with the bag. The maid would have resisted, but this morning it was clear that the lady of the manor had no time to waste.
The route they were taking brought them to the stable behind the house, but they had to push the door, so when they succeeded, one of the ranch boys was waiting to see who had been tampering with the door, and on seeing who, scuttled away after making a bow. The back gate was in the direction the ranch man took. A paved walkway that snaked around the house led here, but this place would conceal her exit from the more than a few eyes in the manor. The horse-driven carriage was already at the turn facing the back of the manor, flanked by two armed soldiers on horses, her guards. The back had a single window at the top for a night watchman to stand in. It was empty now. Lady Esella went around the carriage to speak to the driver in the sternest of terms, giving the maid and Pithadia, who was already sitting in the carriage, an opportunity to share intelligence.
'This can't be the burial,' the one with the bag said, stuffing it in the space behind the seat.
'No way,' Pithadia agreed, 'she seems to be escaping from her own house!'
'From master Garrera,' the other maid clarified. Lady Esella was now giving fresh instructions to the guards.
'Think she could have seen the strange woman with him?'
Of course the maids ought to know the deepest secrets of the home in which they serve.
'This isn't eloping,' Pithadia said, 'this is someone running for her dear life.'
The other maid wasn't to have another word, because Lady Esella had returned, and she had to clear her way.
'Travel safe, ma'am,' is what she said, getting no response. The carriage horses neighed simultaneously, and the wheels turned at full speed.