Mistress of the Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  Now it was Chumaka's turn to shy from the discussion. Tsurani enough to arrange for men to be tortured or killed when matters made such measures necessary, still he did not relish the idea of causing pain for the Servant of the Empire. The look in Jiro's eyes whenever he contemplated the Lady Mara inevitably gave him an inward urge to shiver.

  'I shall arrange to send your Force Commander, Omelo, this latest news of Acoma and Shinzawai deployment, with your leave, my master.'

  Jiro gave a languid gesture of acquiescence, his thoughts still focused upon revenge.

  Barely waiting for this signal of approval, Chumaka backed off, bowing, his spirits reviving almost at once. Before Jiro had retrieved his scroll and returned to reading, the Anasati First Adviser was hurrying off, muttering ideas and plans half under his breath.

  'Those Minwanabi warriors who did not swear service at the time of Mara's ascension to the title of Good Servant, now . . .' he mused. A wicked gleam flashed in his eyes. 'Yes. Yes. I think the time is appropriate to call them in from that frontier garrison and add their ranks to the confusion of our enemies.'

  Chumaka hastened his step, loudly whistling now that he was out of his master's earshot. 'Gods,' he broke off his tune to whisper, 'what would life be without politics?'

  The Empire mourned. On the announcement of Ichindar's death, the gates to the Imperial Precinct had boomed shut, and the traditional red banners of mourning had unfurled from the walls. The land roads and the waterways of the Gagajin had come alive with messengers. The rare metal gongs and chimes in each of the temples of the Twenty Higher Gods then rang in homage at the passing of Ichindar, ninety-one strokes, one for each generation of his line. The city would stay closed to trade for the traditional twenty days of mourning, and all merchant shops and stalls not essential for the maintenance of life had their doors sealed with red bunting.

  Inside Kentosani, the streets were subdued, the hawking cries of food sellers and water brokers stilled; and the chanting of the priests in prayer for the holy departed rang out in the mourning quiet. By tradition, conversation was forbidden in the streets, and even the city's licensed beggars had to seek alms in pantomime. The Red God Turakamu had silenced the Voice of Heaven on Earth, and while Ichindar's embalmed body lay in state amid a circle of lit candles and chanting priests, the Holy City also observed its silence of respect and sorrow.

  On the twenty-first day, the Light of Heaven would be placed atop his funeral pyre, and the chosen successor anointed by the priests of the Higher and Lesser Gods would ascend the golden throne as the ashes cooled.

  And in anticipation of that day, plots seethed and armies massed. The Assembly was not oblivious to the restlessness of humanity.

  Outside the city gates, anchored along the riverside, or cramming the dockside of Silmani and Sulan-Qu, rested the trader barges caught outside the gates by the observance of the Emperor's mourning. Prices for rental of warehouse space soared to a premium as merchants vied to secure shelter for perishable goods caught in transit, or for valuables too choice to be left on boats under insufficient guard. The less fortunate factors bid for space in private cellars and attics, and the least fortunate lost their wares to the rising tides of war.

  Clans gathered and house companies armed. The roads became clouded with late summer dust raised by thousands of tramping feet. The rivers became jammed with flotillas of barges and war craft, and all oared or poled transport were engaged to ferry warriors. The merchants suffered, as trade goods were tossed wholesale into the river to make way for human cargo, and shortages in the cities ensued as provender was bought up by the cartload from the costermongers who many times sold out their produce before it could arrive at the city markets. Bartering by the roadside was often conducted at spearpoint. The farmers suffered. The rich complained of high prices; the merchants, of desperate shortfalls; while the poorest went hungry and mobbed the streets in unrest.

  The Ruling Lords who might have lent patrols to quell the masses and restore order were busied elsewhere, sending their warriors to support this faction or that, or using the upset of routine to stage raids against enemies whose garrisons were pared down for field battle. Riots threatened in the poor quarter, while profiteers grew fat on inflated prices.

  The Empire's various factions armed and banded together into vast war hosts, and yet for all of the house colors that sent troops to converge upon Kentosani, the banners of three prominent houses were conspicuous by their absence: Acoma green, Shinzawai blue, and Anasati red and yellow.

  In a high tower in the City of the Magicians, closeted within a study cluttered with books and scrolls and dominated by a dented hard-fired clay samovar of foreign craft and origin, the Great One Shimone sat with bony fingers laced around a teacup. He had developed a fondness for the Midkemian delicacy in its myriad varieties, and servants kept the brazier under the samovar hot day and night. The cushions the Black Robe perched on were as thin as his ascetic tastes. Before him rested a low three-legged table whose top was inlaid with a seeing crystal, through which danced the images of mustering war hosts. It showed brief glimpses of Mara and Hokanu in conference with advisers, followed by a view of Jiro gesticulating to make some point with a stiff-lipped Omechan Lord who looked reluctant.

  Shimone sighed. His fingers tapped an agitated rhythm on his tepid cup.

  But it was Fumita, sitting almost invisibly in the shadows opposite, who voiced the obvious thought. 'They fool nobody, least of all us. Each waits for the other to move, so that when we appear, they can say with clear conscience, "We were but defending ourselves."'

  Neither magician belabored the sad, self-evident conclusion: that despite their personal endorsement of Mara's radical ideas, the Assembly's prevailing sentiment ran against her. Acoma and Anasati had sounded the horns of war. Whether or not Mara and Jiro officially unfurled their standards, whether or not they had formally announced their intentions and petitioned the priest of the War God to smash the Stone Seal on the Temple of Jastur, all but the splinter factions in some way took their lead from Anasati and Acoma. The Assembly of Magicians would unavoidably be forced to take action. In the sad strained silence that followed between Fumita and Shimone, a buzzing sound could be heard beyond the door. This was followed by a heavy thump and a fast tread, and the wooden latch tripped up.

  'Hochopepa,' Shimone said, his deep eyes seeming lazily half-closed. He set down his cup, flicked his hand, and the vistas in the seeing crystal muddied and faded away.

  Fumita arose. 'Hocho in a hurry can only mean that enough of our number have gathered for a quorum,' he surmised. 'We had best join him in the great hall.'

  The door to Shimone's private chamber creaked open, and a red-faced Hochopepa shoved through, his large girth hampered by the clutter. 'You'd better make haste. One hothead down there in council just proposed to blast half the population of Szetac Province to cinders.'

  Fumita clicked his tongue. 'No discrimination was made between spear-carrying warriors and peasant families driven to flee the path of the armies?'

  Hochopepa sucked in fat cheeks. 'None.' He backed, wheezing, out of the doorway, beckoning for his companions to follow. 'And for worse news, the point you just made was the only argument that stayed the vote. Otherwise some fool would be down there right this moment turning everything in sight to smoking char!' He turned down the hall without waiting to see if the others followed.

  At this, Fumita was through the doorway hard on the stout mage's heels. 'Well, I think we have the imagination between us to trump up a few more objections and slow them down a while longer.' He glanced over his shoulder to admonish Shimone, who could seem as reluctant to move quickly as to use words. 'It can't be helped, my friend. This time you are going to have to talk as much as the rest of us to help the cause along.'

  The ascetic mage's eyes snapped open to show a spark of affront. 'Talk is quite different an expenditure of energy from empty chatter!'

  As the thin magician's glare swiveled toward the portly
leader of the party, it was Hochopepa's turn to look offended. Yet before he could find something heated to say in his own defense, Fumita hustled him ahead. 'Save your energy,' he said, hiding a grin behind solemnity. 'What inspiration we have we'd better muster for the council chamber. They are probably quarreling like Midkemian monkeys down there, and here we go rushing in to make it worse.'

  Without further discussion, the three hurried down the corridor to the entrance to the Great Hall.

  The debate Mara's supporters hastened to join continued for days. Many times in the course of the Empire's history arguments had divided the Assembly, but none before had raged so long and so hotly. Stray winds ripped through the great chamber that served as meeting hall in the City of the Magicians, as more and more members gathered. The high, tiered galleries were nearly filled to capacity, an event only equaled in recent times by the occasion of the debate of Milamber's exile and the abolition of the office of Warlord. The only absentees were Great Ones in their dotage. The air grew stuffy with the crowding, and since no meeting of the Assembly ever adjourned without a final decision, the proceedings dragged on day and night.

  Yet another dawn seeped grey through the high windows of the dome, silvering the lacquer floor tiles and revealing weariness in every face present. It lit in drab colors the only activity: in the middle of the vast chamber, a stout magician paced back and forth, declaiming.

  Fatigue etched Hochopepa's face. He waved one stout arm, and grated on in a voice made hoarse by hours of nonstop oratory, 'And I urge every one of you to consider: great changes have begun that will not be undone!' He raised his other arm, and clapped his palms together to emphasise his point, and several of the elderly Black Robes started in their seats, roused from dozing. 'We cannot simply wave our hand and have the Empire return to the old ways! The days of the Warlordship are finished!'

  Shouts of disagreement sought to interrupt his argument. 'Armies are marching while we deliberate,' cried Motecha, among the more outspoken of the Great Ones who disapproved of the late Ichindar's policies.

  On the floor, the stout magician held up his hand for silence, actually grateful for the momentary respite. His throat was scratched raw from speaking. 'I know!' He waited for stillness to settle and went on. 'We have been defied. So I have heard many of you repeat over and over' -he glanced around the room, aware of a change that rippled like the movement of the tide through his audience - 'and over and over.' Even the more staid members of the council were now shifting in their seats. Their backsides were numb from sitting, and no longer were they content to settle back and politely listen. More than just the impatient had started to cry out interruptions, and not a few were standing belligerently on their feet. Hochopepa admitted to himself that he would have to yield the floor at last, and hope Fumita or the wily Teloro could find a strategy to draw the discussion out further.

  'We are not gods, my brothers,' Hochopepa summed up. 'We are powerful, yes, but still merely men. For us to intervene rashly with force, from pique or fear of the unknown, would but increase the chance of lasting damage being visited upon the Nations. I caution all that no matter how inflamed passions may be, the effect of our act will be lingering. When emotions at last cool, shall we regret having done that which even we cannot undo?' He ended his speech with a slow lowering of his arms, and an even slower shuffle across the floor. The heaviness in him as he sank into his seat was not feigned; he had successfully tied up the floor for two and a half days.

  The current spokesman for the Assembly returned onto the floor blinking as if a bit bemused. 'We thank Hochopepa for his wisdom.'

  While the huge chamber echoed with the rising buzz of conversation and dozens of Black Robes vied to speak next, Fumita leaned across Shimone and whispered to his wilted companion, 'Well done, Hocho!'

  Drily Shimone interjected, 'Perhaps for the next few days we will be blessed with a less loquacious companion when we gather over our wine.'

  Spokesman Hodiku said, 'We shall hear Motecha!'

  The short, hook-nosed elder, whose two cousins had once been known as the Warlord's Pets, arose from his seat. Motecha moved with spry steps across the floor, and spun with a flutter of robes. His sharp, narrow-set eyes passed over the assembly briefly, and he said, 'While it has been interesting in no sparse measure to hear our brother Hochopepa recount the history of events, in great detail, this does nothing to change fact. Two armies are even now jockeying to engage in combat. Skirmishes have already occurred between them and only those of us who are fools do not see through the sham of masking their house colors behind the banners of clan cousins or allies! Mara of the Acoma has defied our edict. Even as we speak, her warriors march and engage in illicit warfare!'

  'Why name her ahead of Jiro of the Anasati?' the impulsive Sevean called back.

  Teloro seized the opportunity of the interruption to add fuel to the argument. 'You call the actions of these armies defiance. I urge remembrance upon us all: the Light of Heaven has been murdered! It must be contested, Motecha, that circumstances have forced a call to arms. Lord Hokanu of the Shinzawai would naturally defend the royal family. Mara was Ichindar's staunchest supporter. Jiro, I submit, builds siege engines and hires engineers to plot for his own ambition, not to stabilise the Empire.'

  Motecha folded his arms, emphasising his round-shouldered posture. 'Was it circumstance that led both Jiro of the Anasati and Mara of the Acoma and her consort to order their armies into the field? Neither of their home estates was threatened! Is this conflict in truth inevitable? Did the supposed "Good of the Empire" "force" Mara to order the secondary garrison from her natal estate to prevent Anasati forces and allies from their use of the public roads to Sulan-Qu?'

  'Come now!' cracked Shimone. He had an authoritative voice, when he chose to raise it, and now his stillness held pent-up ire. "How do you know it was Mara who instigated the attack, Motecha? I heard of no battle, but only a skirmish that ended with a drawing of lines. Do we whimper civil war when there has been little but a calling of names and an exchange of insults and some sporadic bowfire?'

  Teloro expounded a second point. 'I would have you note: the banner at the fore of the lines near Sulan-Qu was not Acoma, but that of Lord Jidu of the Tuscalora. He may be Mara's vassal, but his estate lies directly in the path of Jiro's march. The Lord of the Tuscalora could legitimately be defending his lands from invasion.'

  Motecha narrowed his gaze. 'Our colleague Tapek went to the field and observed, Teloro. I may not be the student of history that your friend Hochopepa is, but I can certainly hear the difference between a defensive position and an army launching an assault!'

  'And Jiro's collection of siege engines in the forests outside Kentosani are for defense?' Shimone cried back, but his point was drowned by the hubbub of other voices.

  The Spokesman shouted for order. 'Colleagues! The business at hand requires order.'

  Motecha shrugged his robe straight like a jigacock puffing its feathers. He stabbed a finger at the galleries. 'Arrows have been fired between a vassal of Mara's and Anasati warriors masquerading under the banner of Clan Ionani. Are we going to sit about arguing until our edict is defied a second time? Tapek reports that troops have felled trees for buttresses to give their archers better cover.'

  Clearing his throat, Hochopepa croaked hoarsely, 'Well then, Tapek could have ordered a stop to the shooting.' This brought laughter and an upwelling of derogatory comments. 'Or was it the fact that stray arrows show little regard for the majesty of a Black Robe that gave our friend Tapek pause?'

  At this, Tapek sprang to his feet, his red hair brilliant against the black robes behind. He shouted, 'We already told Mara to stop once! Has she so swiftly forgotten the troop of warriors we destroyed as an example upon the field?'

  'Motecha has the floor,' objected the Spokesman. 'You will stay seated unless you are formally given leave to lead the discussion, friend Tapek.'

  The red-haired magician subsided to his seat, muttering to the contingent o
f young friends who sat with him.

  Motecha resumed his point, 'I submit that Jiro of the Anasati has made no move in aggression. His siege engines may surround the walls of Kentosani, but they do not fire! And they may never do so, if Mara is prevented from linking up with her support inside the Imperial Precinct.'

  'What support? Do you imply that Mara has been party to treachery?' called Shimone. 'That she had no hand in the Omechan plot to kill Ichindar has been documented!'

  Again the Assembly erupted into disorder. For several minutes Spokesman Hodiku had to hold up his hands to restore quiet. The muttering subsided reluctantly, with Sevean caught still gesticulating as he expounded some point to a colleague. He lowered his voice, looking sheepish.

  Hochopepa mopped sweat from his brow. 'It begins to look as if I did not need to spend my voice in speech making.' He chuckled under his breath. 'Our opponents are doing a fair job of tangling the issue by themselves.'

  'Not for much longer, I fear,' Shimone said ominously.

  Motecha added further accusations, more outspoken than any of his predecessors'. 'I say Mara of the Acoma is the culprit! Her disregard, no, her contempt of tradition is well documented. How she came to wear the honored title of Servant of the Empire is for others to conjecture. But I suggest that she and the late Emperor had an . . . understanding. It is Mara's son, Justin, she would raise as pretender to the golden throne, and I endorse Jiro's right to defend against this unconscionable show of Acoma ambition!'

  'That ends it,' Fumita said gloomily. 'Sooner or later, the adoptive privilege of Mara's children had to be raised. Someone had to drag the boy into the quarrel.'

  There was true sadness in his tone, perhaps in his personal remembrance of the son he had renounced upon his call to join the Assembly. Yet whatever else he might have added became drowned in a wave of shouting. Magicians sprang to their feet, and several seemed to glow with the light of inner anger. Through the tumult, Spokesman Hodiku waved his staff, and when he was ignored, gave over the floor to a young mage named Akani.