Prince of Wrath by Tony Roberts

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