Mistress of the Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  Intrigued in spite of her First Adviser's reserve, Mara said, 'What are you attempting to bring to our Empire?'

  'Fine beverages, mistress. A wonderful assortment of flavors and pungent drinks that will astonish your palate. Should this venture prove profitable, and I assure you it will, then I will also bring exotic wines and ales to the Empire from the finest vintners and brewers in the Kingdom of the Isles.'

  Mara weighed her impressions. No wonder this man had remained on Midkemia. He might have served as a house soldier before the final battle of the Riftwar, but he was a born merchant. She cast a sidelong glance as Lujan arrived and marched smartly to take his place behind her. If fate had cast him on the other side of the rift, given his glib tongue and facile mind, he might perhaps have been the one to sit here, selling exotic wares.

  The surmise was somehow reassuring. Still, it was not her nature to trust readily, particularly when Saric had given no word in favor of this stranger's proposal. Mara chose to challenge the connection with her Anasati enemy. 'What was your arrangement with the Lord of the Matawa?'

  Janaio flashed her a grin in the manner of a born Midkemian. Where another Tsurani ruler might be put off by such openness, Mara had known Kevin too well to misunderstand; if anything, the foreign mannerism set her at ease. Janaio went on, 'You heard about my talks, but I assure you they are no secret. The wares I carry are luxuries and need delicate handling and skillful negotiators to place them in the proper markets. I would be a poor merchant if I failed to examine all options. The Lord of the Matawa has sent many emissaries through the rift seeking to establish a brokerage.'

  Mara's lips thinned as she pondered the implications of this. Jican whispered something to Saric, who nodded and quietly touched her arm. 'My Lady, we know that the Matawa wish to make inroads in your trade market. They cannot disturb your imperial patent that gives you exclusive license for certain items, but they hope to become a rival presence to lure any nonexclusive trade they can wean away from our factors. They could legally establish exclusive trade rights beyond the rift, where we have no control. Arakasi's report holds that funding for the venture might well come from Jiro.'

  Sick that politics should increasingly come to drive even the most innocuous of ventures, Mara inclined her head to Janaio. 'Send for what you need.'

  Her servants were devotedly efficient. Proud to uphold their Lady's honor, they swiftly brought in trays with several pots and porcelain cups. A slave hurried after, bearing a kettle of steaming water.

  Janaio set out his various packets and vials with a theatrical flourish. 'First,' he announced, 'something pungent and savory.' He poured water into one of the small pots and dropped in a small pouch. 'This delicacy grows on a shrub in the southern part of the Kingdom, mistress. The leaves are costly to dry and ship, and because they are susceptible to mold, only the very wealthy can afford to buy the small supply that reaches the northern lands. For this reason, the drink I prepare has not gained much popularity in my city of LaMut. Once you have tasted, I think you must agree that this is likely due to lack of familiarity.' He raised the top of the pot, sniffed at the steam, and closed his eyes. 'I believe you will concur that this fine beverage will find approval from Tsurani nobles of taste.'

  With this, he poured, filling the room with an exotic, spicy scent. When three cups were full, he nodded to Mara's servant, who lifted the tray and bore it to the dais for the Lady to choose her preference. She motioned for the slave who had carried the pot to taste one. The servant handed her one of the pair that remained, and bore the tray back to Janaio.

  The merchant lifted his cup, saying, 'Sip cautiously, lest you scald your tongue, mistress.'

  The alien aroma fascinated Mara. Unlike anything else she had known, she found it wildly enticing. She sipped the brew. The first taste was acrid and strange, yet bracing and flavorful. She considered a moment, then said, 'I suspect a little honey would cut the bitterness.'

  The trader smiled. 'You skip ahead of me, Good Servant. In Midkemia we also use white sugar made from a plant called beets. Some folk prefer a dash of milk; yet others, the juice of a tart fruit similar to the Kelewanese ketundi.'

  Mara sipped again and found her appreciation increasing. 'What do you call this?'

  The man smiled. 'It is tea, Good Servant.'

  Mara laughed. 'Many things are called "tea," Janaio of LaMut. What is the herb you have brewed?'

  The merchant gave back a Tsurani shrug. 'That is the name of the herb, or rather the leaves of the shrub. When someone in LaMut says "tea," this is what they speak of, not the blends of plantstuffs steeped in hot water you drink here. Yet of this delicacy there are a multitude of varieties as well, robust, subtle, sweet, and bitter. One selects to suit the occasion.'

  Now fascinated, Mara nodded. 'What else?'

  Janaio selected another pot from the Acoma supply and prepared a second hot beverage. 'This is a far different drink.'

  A black liquid that smelled rich and heady was presently handed to Mara. This time, Jican supplanted her taster, his excitement overcoming caution. Mara could barely wait for her hadonra to try his share before she sipped at her sample. The drink was bitter and yet piquant. 'What do you call this? It reminds me vaguely of chocha.'

  Janaio bowed at her evident pleasure. 'This is coffee, mistress. And like the tea, it has a thousand different cousins. This you drink grows on plants high upon the hillsides of Yabon. Good, robust, but hardly a delicacy.' He clapped, and one of his servants brought forth another basket, smaller, and tied with festive ribbons. 'Let me offer a gift. Here are a dozen samples for you to consume at your leisure. Each is clearly labeled as to the type of bean used to make the drink and instructions for preparation.'

  Mara set aside her half-empty cup. While this sampling was diverting her from her troubled marriage, the day was waning while she tarried. She was reluctant to forgo the hour she always spent with her son while he took his supper. Justin was recently five years of age, too young to understand delays.

  Sensing her impatience, Janaio raised a hand in appeal. 'The most astonishing drink remains yet to be sampled.' Quickly, before the Lady could rise and take her leave, he asked her servant, 'Please, may I have needra milk?'

  Mara might have taken issue at this man's presumption, except that Midkemians could be expected to act impetuously. She hid her tiredness and motioned for the servant to run the requested errand. In the interval, Saric bent close to his Lady's ear. 'Don't miss the subtleties,' he advised. 'This man was Tsurani-born. He apes Midkemian brashness, almost as if he knows that you had a fondness, once, for such behavior. I do not like the smoothness of this play upon your sympathies, my Lady. You will be cautious, please?'

  Mara tipped her fan against her chin. Her adviser was right to wish restraint. 'This Janaio drinks from the same pot as I. Surely there will be no harm in enduring one more sample. After that the interview will be ended.'

  Saric returned a half nod, but a glance exchanged with Jican caused the little hadonra to pause. When the servant returned with a small pitcher of milk, Jican suggested that he also would like a cup to taste, separate from the slave that would continue to perform his office.

  'But of course,' Janaio agreed in pleasant tones. 'You are a shrewd man, who wishes to understand every nuance of the trade your house may undertake.' While Mara's councilors looked on in wonderment, the trader poured equal portions of milk and hot water into the final pot. His chain sparkled as he leaned toward his basket, speaking all the while. 'Occasionally, you may wish to use only milk, as it gives added richness to this drink.'

  His preparations were completed with yet more flourish than before. Again he passed the tray of filled cups to the servant, indicating Mara should choose hers first. She did not, but waited until Jican and the taster had selected. The smell of this drink was intoxicating. The little hadonra shed his anxiety and sipped. He recoiled with a smothered yelp as he burned his tongue.

  The trader had the grace not to laugh. 'My apo
logies, my Lady. I should have thought to warn: this drink is served very hot.'

  Jican recovered his aplomb. 'My Lady,' he said excitedly, 'the taste of this rarity is incredible.'

  Both hadonra and Lady looked at the slave who served as taster. More careful than Jican, he had not burned his tongue, and he was slurping the drink with such evident relish that Mara motioned for the servant to pass her the tray.

  As she chose from the last two cups, Janaio said, 'If coffee reminds you of chocha, then this wonder may remind you of the chocha-la you make for your children. But I humbly submit, that chocha-la is to chocolate as my humble station is to your grandeur.'

  Mara sipped and closed her eyes at the marvelous taste. Unable to hide her surprise and pleasure, she sighed in pure happiness.

  Grinning, Janaio accepted the last cup from the tray and drank deep. 'This is chocolate, mistress.'

  Unable to help herself, Mara thought of Kevin, who had commented on more than one occasion that he missed the chocolate sweets of festivals in his homeworld. At last she understood.

  Blinking back the moisture that gathered in her eyes, and passing off the indiscretion as if she avoided steam from the cup, Mara said, 'This is a wonderful thing.'

  Janaio set aside his emptied cup and bowed. 'I wish permission to be granted exclusive license to import, mistress.'

  Mara shook her head with open regret. 'I cannot grant that, Janaio of LaMut. My patent from the Imperial Government is limited to certain items.'

  Obviously disappointed, the trader gestured expansively. 'Then perhaps a trading agreement. If exclusivity is beyond your means, then at least let me broker through the mightiest trading house in the Empire.'

  Mara drank more of the delightful liquid, recalled to caution at last. 'What of the Matawa?'

  Janaio gave a deprecating cough. 'Their offer was insulting, no, demeaning, and they lack the experienced factors you have in your employ. They require interpreters, still, to transact business, an uneasy situation for one in the luxury market, as I am. I desire no avenue that is ripe for misunderstanding, or even the outside chance of exploitation.'

  Savoring the dregs of her drink, Mara said, 'That much I can grant.' Regret tinged her tone as she added, 'I can't limit others in bringing these beverages to us, but perhaps some shrewd buying in LaMut might hamper others from competing effectively against our interests.' Then, content to entrust the disposition of final details to Jican, she prepared to take her leave.

  The trader bowed, touching his forehead to the ground. 'Mistress, your wisdom is legendary.'

  Mara stood up. -'When we are both made rich from the importation of chocolate to our Empire, then I will accept the compliment. But now other matters require my presence. Jican will draw up the documents sealing the partnership you request.'

  While servants hurried in to collect the dirtied cups, and Jican's brow furrowed as he confronted the intricate issues of trade, Mara left the room, helped by Lujan and Saric.

  Outside, screened from view by the gloom of an inner corridor, Saric turned a sour eye on his mistress. 'You took grave risks, my Lady. Any trader from Midkemia who was originally Tsurani-born could once have been sworn to the Minwanabi.'

  Left short-tempered from missing her rest, Mara answered tartly. 'You all saw. He drank equal portion.' Then she softened. 'And those rare drinks have made me feel wonderful.'

  Saric bowed, his silence indicative of displeasure.

  Mara moved on toward the nursery, where, even one wing distant, enraged yells could be heard from Justin. Her sigh turned into a laugh, 'I am late, and the servants plainly have their hands fall.' She laid a hand on her uncomfortably swollen middle. 'I am anxious for this baby to get himself born, though with another, there will none of us get any peace.' She headed in the direction of Justin's ruckus with a girlish smile. 'I may well come to miss being pampered when once again I must sit without the aid of two healthy young men.'

  Lujan grinned in sly appreciation, his expression mirrored by Saric. 'Hokanu will do his best, I am sure, to keep you with child indefinitely.'

  Mara laughed, the bitter undertone not missed by her councilors. 'He will, I am sure, if we can be made to agree that Justin should be the Acoma heir.'

  'Stubborn,' Saric mouthed to his cousin over his Lady's bent head.

  Past nightfall, the trader called Janaio of LaMut returned with his retinue of hired Midkemian guards to a deserted warehouse in the city of Sulan-Qu. The hour was late. The wicks in the lamps in the rich quarter had burned down, while in the crumbling tenements near the riverside only the setting quarter moon cast any light. The streets lay under inky darkness, wreathed with mist off the Gagajin. Where once the disreputable population of the city had preyed as they pleased on what traffic dared to move abroad without guard, now the Emperor's patrols drove Kentosani's malcontents and vagrants into the deepest back alleys. The only skulkers in the open were the mongrel dogs, scavenging garbage from the markets.

  Though calm by the standards of Tsuranuanni, to Midkemian ears the city was far from peaceful. Even from inside the warehouse, the shouts of a madam of the Reed Life could be heard insulting a client who had been rough with one of her girls. Dogs barked, and a wakeful jigabird crowed. Somewhere nearby, an infant wailed. The mercenaries hired to attend Janaio's retinue shifted uneasily, the dank mud of the river flats an alien smell in their nostrils. They did not know why they had been brought to this empty, half-rotted building; nor did they understand precisely why they had been paid to cross the rift. Their employer had interviewed them carefully and required that they speak no Tsurani. But work in the Kingdom had slowed since the battle at Sethanon, and for men with few ties to home, the offered money had been good.

  The bearers put down their bundles and waited for orders, while the bodyguards maintained their formation behind Janaio. Without sound, silk cords with weighted ends suddenly coiled down from the rafters. They caught and whipped tight, each encircling the throat of an unwary barbarian soldier.

  Assassins in black followed, leaping from their unseen perches and using their weight and momentum to jerk the guards off their feet. Four men's necks snapped instantly, while the others hung kicking and gagging as they were hoisted and slowly strangled.

  The bearers watched in horror as the Midkemian mercenaries died. Wide-eyed, frozen in terror, they knew better than to dare raise an outcry. Their fear was short-lived. Two more black-clad assassins flitted out of the shadows and moved through their unarmed ranks like wind through standing rushes. In less than a minute, Janaio's ten bearers lay dead, blood from their slashed throats pattering on the wood floor. The assassins who held the armed guards aloft released their cords. Dead Midkemians thumped in sprawled heaps, here one with his knuckles crumpled under his hip, and another there with his bitten-through tongue oozing blood through his beard.

  Janaio removed his rich clothing and tossed it amid the corpses. One of the black-clad assassins bowed to him and offered a small bag. From this Janaio withdrew a dark robe and cast it over his shoulders. Quickly he took a vial from his pocket and lathered sweet-smelling ointment upon his hands. The grease dissolved a layer of concealing paint; were there more light, the red dye and tattoo of a Hamoi assassin would now be revealed.

  From the thickest gloom of a corner a deep voice said, 'Is it done?'

  The man who was no trader, who called himself Janaio for convenience, bowed his head. 'As you commanded, honored master.'

  A heavyset man with a too-light tread stepped from concealment. His person clicked and clinked as he moved, as bone ornaments dangling from leather thongs jostled against the instruments of death he wore affixed to his belt. His robe was studded with bosses cut from the skulls of victims; his sandals had straps of cured human flesh. He cast no glance at the bodies littering the floor, though he disdained to step in the puddles. The Obajan of the Hamoi Tong nodded, the scalplock that hung from his otherwise shaved head twisting down his back. 'Good.' He raised a hugely muscled arm and pl
ucked a vial from the breast of his robe. 'You are certain she drank?'

  'As did I, master.' The erstwhile trader bowed low yet again. 'I placed the potion in the chocolate, knowing that drink to be the most irresistible. Her hadonra escaped, by luck of a burned tongue. But the Lady drank hers to the dregs. She swallowed enough slow poison to kill three men.' This speech ended, the assassin licked his lips. Anxious, sweating, he controlled his nerves and waited.

  The Obajan rolled the vial containing the antidote for the rare poison mixed with the chocolate between his thick palms. He watched with stony gaze as the eyes of his minion followed it; but the afflicted held in his desperation. He did not crack, and beg.

  The Obajan's lips parted in a smile. 'You did well.' He surrendered the vial, which was colored green, symbol of life. The man who had called himself Janaio of LaMut took the promise of reprieve in shaking hands, snapped off the wax seal, and drank the bitter draft down. Then he smiled also.

  A second later, his expression froze. Fear touched him, and what at first appeared to be a spasm of uncertainty. His eyes widened as pain stabbed through his abdomen, and he glanced down at the emptied vial. Then his fingers lost their grip. The container with its false offer of life dropped and his knees wobbled. A groan escaped his lips. He fell to the floor, doubled over.

  'Why?' His voice emerged as a croak, pinched between spasms of agony.

  The Obajan's reply was very soft. 'Because she has seen your face, Kolos, as have her advisers. And because it suits the needs of the Hamoi. You die with honor, serving the tong. Turakamu will welcome you to his halls with a great feast, and you will return to the Wheel of Life in a higher station.'

  The betrayed man fought his need to thrash in agony. Dispassionately the Obajan observed, 'The pain will pass quickly. Even now life is departing.'