Mistress of the Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  Unspoken also was the understanding that the Anasati might in fact have been the target of the faked evidence carried by the tong. Jiro and the old-line traditionalists wished Mara dead, which made his enmity logical. Yet a third faction might be plotting unseen, to create this schism between the Acoma and Anasati alliance that had been sealed with Ayaki's life. The attempt had been against Mara; had she died according to plan, her son would have inherited, as heir. Hokanu, in the vulnerable position of regent, would have been left to manage a sure clash between the Acoma, in an attempt to retain their independence as his Lady would have desired, and the Anasati, who would seek to annex that house on the strength of their blood tie to the boy.

  But if the contract with the tong that had seen Ayaki killed had not been under Jiro's chop, all that had transpired since might be playing into the hands of some third party, perhaps the same Lord whose spy net had breached Arakasi's security.

  'I think,' said Hokanu with gentle firmness, 'that we should not resolve this issue until we have heard from Arakasi, or one of his agents. If he has made headway in his attempt to gain insight into the Great Ones' council, his network will send word. No news is best news, for now.'

  Looking pale and strained, and feeling chilled as well, Mara nodded. The discomforts of her pregnancy were shortly going to make conversation difficult, in any event. She lay, limp in her husband's arms, while he snapped his fingers and called for her maids. It was part of his singular devotion that kept him at her side through her early hours of illness. When she offered protest that he surely had better things to do with his time, he only smiled.

  The clock chimed. Mara pushed damp hair from her brow and sighed. She closed her eyes a moment, to ease the ongoing strain of reviewing the fine print of the trade factor's reports from Sulan-Qu. Yet her interval of rest lasted scarcely seconds.

  A maid entered with a tray. Mara started slightly at the intrusion, then resigned herself to the interruption as the servant began laying out a light lunch on the small lap table beside the one she had left cluttered with unfinished business.

  As the mistress's regard turned her way, the maid bowed, touching forehead to floor in obeisance very near to a slave's. As Mara suspected, the girl wore livery trimmed in blue, Shinzawai colors.

  'My Lady, the master sent me to bring you lunch. He says you are too thin, and the baby won't have enough to grow on if you don't take time to eat.'

  Mara rested a hand on her swollen middle. The boy child the midwives had promised her seemed to be developing just fine. If she herself looked peaked, impatience and nerves were the more likely cause rather than diet. This pregnancy wore at her, impatient as she was to be done with it, and to have the question of heirship resolved. She had not realised how much she had come to rely upon Hokanu's companionship until strain had been put upon it. Her wish to name Justin as Acoma heir had exacted a high cost, and she longed for the birth of the child, that the altercation with Hokanu could be set behind them both.

  But the months until her due date seemed to stretch into infinity. Reflective, Mara stared out the window, where the akasi vines were in bloom and slaves were busy with shears trimming them back from the walk. The heavy perfume reminded her of another study, on her old estate, and a day in the past when a red-haired barbarian slave had upset her concept of Tsurani culture. Now, Hokanu was the only man in the Empire who seemed to share her progressive dreams and ideas. It was hard to speak to him, lately, without the issue of progeny coming between.

  The maid slipped out unobtrusively. Mara regarded the tray of fruit, bread, and cold cheeses with little enthusiasm. Still, she forced herself to fill up a plate and eat, however tasteless the food seemed on her tongue. Past experience had taught her that Hokanu would come by to check on her, and she did not wish to face the imploring tenderness in his eyes if she followed her inclinations and left the meal untouched.

  The report that had occupied her was far more serious than it appeared at first glance. A warehouse by the river had burned, causing damage to the surplus hides held off the spring market. The prices had not been up to standard this season, and rather than sell leather at such slight profit, Jican had consigned them for later delivery to the sandalmaker's. Mara frowned. She set her barely touched plate aside, out of habit. Although it was no secret that, of all the houses in the Empire, hers was the only one to provide sandals for its bearer slaves and field hands, until now the subject only made her the butt of social small talk. Old-line traditionalist Lords laughed loudly and long, and claimed her slaves ran her household; one particularly cantankerous senior priest in the temple service of Chochocan, the Good God, had sent her a tart missive cautioning her that treating slaves too kindly was an offense against divine will. Make their lives too easy, the priest had warned, and their penance for earning heaven's disfavor would not be served. They might be returned on the Wheel of Life as a rodent or other lowly beast, to make up for their lack of suffering in this present life. Saving the feet of slaves from cuts and sores was surely a detriment to their eternal spirits.

  Mara had returned a missive of placating banalities to the disaffected priest, and gone right on supplying sandals.

  But the current report, with her factor's signature and impression of the battered chop used on the weekly inventories, was another matter. For the first time an enemy faction had sought to exploit her kind foible to the detriment of House Acoma. The damaged hides would be followed, she was sure, with a sudden, untraceable rumor in the slaves' barracks that she had covertly arranged the fire as an excuse to spare the cost of the extra sandals. Since possession of footwear gave not only comfort, but also considerable status to the slaves in Acoma service, in the eyes of their counterparts belonging to other houses, the privilege was fiercely coveted. Though no Tsurani slave would ever consider rebellion, as disobedience to master or mistress was against the will of the gods, even the thought that their yearly allotment of sandals might be revoked would cause resentment that would not show on the surface but would result in sloppy field work, or tasks that somehow went awry. The impact on Acoma fortunes would be subtle, but tangible. The sabotage to the warehouse could become an insidiously clever ploy, because in order to rectify the shortage of leathers, Mara might draw the attention of more than just an old fanatic in the temple likely to write a protest to her. It could be seen in certain quarters that she was vulnerable, and temples that were previously friendly to her could suddenly become 'neutral' to a point just short of hostility.

  She could ill afford difficulties from the priesthood at this time, not with the Emperor's enemies and her own allied in common cause to ruin her.

  The lunch tray remained neglected as she took up clean paper and pen and drew up an authorisation for the factor in Sulan-Qu to purchase new hides to be shipped to the sandalmaker's. Then she sent her runner slave to fetch Jican, who in turn was ordered to place servants and overseers on the alert for rumors, that the question of footwear for the slaves might never become an issue.

  By the time the matter was resolved, the fruit sat in a puddle of juices, and the cheeses had warmed on the plate in the humid midafternoon air. Involved with the next report in the file, this one dealing with a trade transaction designed to inconvenience the Anasati, Mara heard footsteps at the screen.

  'I am finished with the lunch tray,' she murmured without looking up.

  Presuming the servant would carry out the remains of her meal with the usual silent solicitude, she held her mind on its present track. But however many caravans were robbed, however many Anasati hwaet fields burned, no matter how many stacks of cloth goods were diverted on their way to market, or ships were sent to the wrong port, Mara found little satisfaction. Her heartache did not lessen. She gripped the parchments harder, searching the penned lines for some way to make her enemy feel her hatred in the place that would hurt the most.

  Hands reached over her shoulder, pulled the report from her grip, and gently massaged her neck, which had grown sore from too litt
le movement. 'The cooks will be asking to commit suicide by the blade when they see how little you cared for their lunch tray, my Lady,' Hokanu said in her ear. He followed the admonition with a kiss on the crown of her head, and waited while Mara reddened with embarrassment at mistaking him for a servant.

  She went on to ruefully regard the uneaten meal. 'Forgive me. I became so involved that I forgot.' With a sigh, she turned in her husband's embrace and kissed him back.

  'What was it this time, more mildew in the thyza sacks?' he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

  Mara rubbed her aching forehead. 'No. The hides for the sandalmaker's. We'll purchase replacements.'

  Hokanu nodded, one of the few men in the Empire who would not have argued that sandals for slaves were a waste of good funds. Aware how lucky she was to have such a husband, Mara returned his embrace and heroically reached for the food tray.

  Her husband caught her wrist with a firmness beyond argument. 'That meal is spoiled. We'll have the servants bring a fresh tray, and I'll stay and share it with you. We've spent too little time together lately.'

  He moved around her cushion, his swordsman's grace as always lending beauty to what Mara knew were a lethal set of reflexes. Hokanu wore a loose silk robe, belted with linked shells and a buckle inlaid with lapis lazuli. His hair was damp, which meant he had come in from the bath he customarily took after working out with his officers.

  'You might not be hungry, but I could eat a harulth. Lujan and Kemutali decided to test whether fatherhood had made me complacent.'

  Mara returned a faint smile. 'They are both soaking bruises?' she asked hopefully.

  Hokanu's reply was rueful. 'So was I, until a few minutes ago.'

  'And are you complacent?' Mara pressed.

  'Gods, no,' Hokanu laughed. 'Never in this house. Justin ambushed me twice on the way to my bath, and once again when I got out.' Then, unwilling to dwell on the subject of the son that had become a bone of contention between them, he hurried to ask what kept the frown line between her eyes so prevalent. 'Unless you're scowling to test my complacency also,' he ended.

  Mara was surprised into a laugh. 'No. I know how lightly you sleep, dear heart. I'll know you're getting complacent on the night you stop starting up and tossing pillows and bedclothes at the slightest hint of a strange noise.'

  Happy to see even a moment of mirth from her, Hokanu clapped for a servant to attend to the spoiled lunch tray, and to send to the kitchen for a fresh one. By the time he had disposed of even so brief a detail, he looked back at Mara and, by the faraway look in her eyes, knew he had lost her to contemplation. Her hands had gone tense in her lap, interlocked in the habitual way she assumed when thinking upon the task she had laid for her Spy Master.

  His hunch was confirmed presently when she said, 'I wonder how far Arakasi has gotten in his attempt to infiltrate the City of the Magicians.'

  'We shall not discuss the question until after you have eaten,' Hokanu said in mock threat. 'If you starve yourself anymore, there will be nothing left to you but an enormous belly.'

  'Filled with your son and future heir!' Mara retorted, equally playful, but not at all her unusually perceptive self, by her reference to a sensitive topic.

  Hokanu let the reference pass, in favor of keeping her peaceful enough to enjoy the fruits and light breads and meats he had sent for. On second thought, Arakasi's attempt upon the security of the Assembly of Magicians was probably the safer choice of conversation.

  Arakasi at that moment sat in a noisy roadside tavern in the north of Neshka Province. He wore the striped robe of a free caravan drover, authentically scented with needra, and his right eye seemed to have acquired a cast. The left squinted to compensate, and also to disguise the tendency it had to water at the burning taste of the spirits reputedly brewed by Thun from tubers that grew in the tundra. Arakasi wet his tongue again with the vile liquor, and offered the flask to the caravan master he had spent the last hours attempting to cajole into intoxication.

  The caravan master had a head for spirits like a rock. He was a bald man, massively muscled, with a thunderous laugh, and a regrettable tendency to slap his companions on the back: probably the reason why the benches on either side of him stayed empty, Arakasi reflected. He had bruises across his rib cage from being slammed against the table edge by the man's boisterous thumps. He could have chosen a better subject to pump for information, he realised in hindsight. But the other caravan masters tended to band together with their crews, and he needed one who stood apart. To insinuate himself among a tight-knit group, and to pry a man away from his fellows was likely to take too much time. He had the patience, had many times spent months gaining the confidence of targeted individuals to gain the intelligence Mara required. But here, in the deserted northern tavern, a man with close-knit friendships would be apt to remember a stranger who asked things that a local driver would already know.

  'Argh,' the huge caravan master bawled, entirely too loudly for Arakasi's liking. 'Don't know why any man would choose t'drink such piss.' The man hefted the flask in one ham fist and squinted dubiously at the contents. 'Tastes poisonous enough to sear out yer tongue.' He ended his diatribe by taking another huge swallow.

  Arakasi saw another comradely slap coming, and braced his palms against the plank table barely in time. The blow struck him between the shoulder blades, and the trestle shook, rattling cheap clay crockery.

  'Hey!' shouted the owner of the hostelry from behind the counter bar. 'No brawling in here!'

  The caravan master belched. 'Stupid man,' he confided in a spirit-laden whisper. 'If we were of a mind to wreck things, we'd heave the tables through the walls and bring the stinkin' roof down. Wouldn't be losing much. There's web-spinners in the rafters and biting bugs in the loft bedmats, anyway.'

  Arakasi regarded the heavy lumber that made up the trestle's construction, and conceded that it could serve as a battering ram. 'Heavy enough to crack the gates to the City of Magicians,' he murmured on a suggestive note.

  'Hah!' The burly man slammed the flask down so hard the boards rattled. 'Fool might try that. You heard about the boy who hid out in a wagon, last month? Well, I tell you, the servants of those magicians searched though the goods, and didn't find the kid. But when the wain rolls through the arches of the gates nearside o' the bridge to the island, well, this beam of light shoots down from the arch an' fries the cover off the wool bale the boy was huddled in.' The drover laughed and hit the table, causing the crockery to jump. 'Seven hells! I tell you. The magicians' servants are all running around yelling out a warning, shoutin' death 'n' destruction. Next we know, the boy's ahowlin' loud enough to be heard clear to Dustari, and then he's sprintin' down the road back into the forest like his butt's on fire. Found him later, hiding out in a charcoal burner's shed. Not a mark on him, mind, but it was days before he'd stop crying.' The caravan master put his finger to his temple and winked knowingly. 'They scrambled his head, you see. Thought he was being eaten by fire demons or some such.'

  Arakasi digested this while the caravan master took another pull from the flask. He wiped his lips on his hairy wrist and peered at Mara's Spy Master. His voice lowered to a tone of menace. 'Don't even joke about trying to cross the gate to the magician's city. Mess with the Assembly, and all of us lose our jobs. I've got no wish to end my life as a slave, none at all.'

  'But the boy who tried to sneak in as a prank did not lose his freedom,' Arakasi pointed out.

  'Might as well have,' the caravan master said morosely. He drank another draught. 'Might as well have. He can't sleep for getting nightmares, and days he walks around like one already dead - still got a scrambled head.'

  Lowering his voice out of fear the caravan master said, 'I hear they have ways of knowing what's in the minds of those who try to come to the island. 'Cause it was this prankish lad, they let him live. But I've heard tales that if you mean them harm -' he held his hand out, thumb turned down - 'you find yourself at the bottom of that lake.' Now whispering, he
went on, 'The lake bottom is covered with bodies. Too cold down there for them to bloat up and rise. The dead just stay down there.' With a nod to affirm his statement, the caravan master concluded in normal tone, 'Magicians don't like to be messed with, there's a fact.'

  'Here's to letting them be,' Arakasi hooked back the flask and drank in an unusual fit of pique. The assignment Mara had set him was damned near impossible. Caravans traveled only as far as the gate to the river bridge. There, the crews surrendered their reins to servants from the inner city, and each load was vigorously searched before the goods rolled forward. The bridge did not go all the way across the lake, but ended in a water landing, where inbound supplies were offloaded into boats, and inspected a second time. Then polemen ferried them across, into the City of the Magicians.

  This was the third man to relate the fate of intruders: no one infiltrated the City of Magicians, and any who tried were transported magically to a watery grave or else driven mad.

  Confronted by a bleak conclusion, Arakasi sucked from the flask to fortify himself. Then he surrendered the remains of the liquor to the hairy caravan master, and slipped unobtrusively out to use the privy.

  In the stinking dimness of the road hostel's privy, Arakasi studied the coarse board walls where passing caravan teams had scribbled or scratched a motley assortment of initials, derisive comments on the quality of the hostel's beer, the names of favored ladies of the Reed Life left behind in bordellos to the south. Among them was the mark he sought, done in white chalk: a simple stick figure, standing. By the drawing's knees was what looked to be a stray line, as if the artist's hand had skipped a beat, in his haste. But seeing this, Arakasi closed tired eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.