Imperialist: The Voyage

Chapter Five; The Imperial Council

"No!"

Moutassim rubbed his nose bridge. Her uncle had said she was sixteen, but this whiny, skinny little brat in front of him seemed much younger. And scarcely worth the old man's tears.

"What did you say?" Moutassim cupped his ear.

"I said no, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going back to Mathus, to that dusty hell hole," she crossed her arms defiantly. "I love Prince Tarik and he loves me. He gave me this."

She held up her hand. On her wrist was a delicate and expensive gold bracelet with sapphires set along the links. Moutassim sighed. As one of the richest men in the empire, Tarik knew how to get poverty-stricken girls to offer themselves up to him. It was his trademark.

"Don't be a fool. You've known my brother for a few days. I have known him all my life. He loves no one but himself. You, my dear the instant he gets tired of you he'd throw you out into the rain if he had to."

"I don't believe you, " she raised her chin, but he could see the uncertainty and pain in her watery eyes. "He... he said we'd get married."

There was a knock on the antechamber door and Morabi stuck his head.

"Lord Strackon is here, your majesty."

"I'll be right there, Morabi," Moutassim raised his hand, but couldn't help adding. "And please. Don't offer that devil a drop of refreshment. Not even a glass of water."

Morabi smiled sadly and left. Moutassim turned his attention back to the lanky teenager in front of him.

"Tarik's been selling you dreams, girl. According to the Imperial Family Act chapter five, no member of the imperial family in the top five line of succession shall marry without the written consent of the reigning emperor or... the Imperial Council. Made law by my grandfather Abdullah I. Untouched for over seventy years."

The defences came crumbling down, as the girl turned away to hide the tears streaming down her face. Moutassim sighed.

"Look, I'll give you some money for your trouble. And you can keep the bracelet..."

"I don't want your stupid money," she shouted and ran from the room. The door banged shut behind her. Moutassim sighed again. It seemed he was destined to keep cleaning up his little brother's mess.

"Speaking about destiny," he muttered to himself, getting up and fixing his leather belt. Destiny awaited him next door, in the Imperial council room. It promised to be one of the most important meetings he would ever chair.

When Moutassim went out, Lord Strackon was waiting outside the council chamber with Morabi. As he approached, Strackon turned and peered at him with his one good eye. For a Sieberonian, the diplomat was short, bronze skin grizzled with age and sunburn. His long, straggly black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his face was pockmarked.

He wore an eye patch over his missing left eye, courtesy of one of many assassination attempts on him five years ago. The wily little diplomat was loathed in Kalli, many wanted him dead and he had played an integral part in the secession crisis of 1109 that almost tore apart the Empire. Yet Sieberon continued to send him as their representative to the Imperial capital, first under Emperor Abdullah II and now under Moutassim. If that wasn't provocation, Moutassim didn't know what was.

"Your Majesty," Strackon bowed in his most elaborate parody of a bow.

"There's no need for you to wait out here," Moutassim said coldly. "As much as your company delights me, Morabi is capable enough to help me greet the other councillors as they arrive."