The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  Only the Warlord seemed amused. Since he was the Emperor’s voice within the Empire, the conspiracies and the setbacks of the rival factions beneath him offered as much enjoyment as the festivities honouring his birthday – which Papewaio’s funeral had deferred until tomorrow. While his host, the Lord of the Minwanabi, fixed his attentions on Mara of the Acoma, Almecho knew Jingu was not plotting to wear the white and gold – at least not this week.

  Though most guests marched in proper silence, Almecho whispered pleasantries in the ear of Jingu. This landed the Lord of the Minwanabi in a prickly mesh of protocol: whether he should remain serious, as was proper for a Lord who attended the funeral of one who had died defending his property; or whether he should defer to the mood of his guest of honour, and smile at the jokes, which in all likelihood were presented to provoke precisely this same dilemma.

  But Mara drew no satisfaction from Jingu’s discomfort. Ahead, on a finger of land past the piers, rose the ceremonial pyre of the Acoma First Strike Leader. He lay in his plumes and ceremonial armour, his sword upon his breast; and across the blade his crossed wrists were bound with scarlet cord, signifying death’s dominance over the flesh. Beyond him, at attention, stood the fifty warriors of the Acoma retinue. They were permitted at the gathering to honour their departed officer; and from their number Mara must choose Papewaio’s successor, one soldier to stand as her honour guard throughout the remainder of the celebration for the Warlord. Almost, her step faltered on the path. To think of another in Pape’s place brought pain past bearing; yet the more practical side of her mind kept functioning. Her next stride was firm, and her choice already made. Arakasi must wear the honour guard’s mantle, for she would need any information he might have gathered to counter the Minwanabi threat.

  Mara stepped up to the bier. She lowered the scarlet reed, and the guests fanned out, forming a circle around Papewaio’s body, leaving small openings at the east and west. The neat lines of Acoma warriors waited behind Papewaio’s head, each holding his sword point down in the earth to symbolize a warrior fallen.

  The drums boomed and fell silent. Mara raised her voice to open the ceremonies. ‘We are gathered to commemorate the life deeds of Papewaio, son of Papendaio, grandson of Kelsai. Let all present know that he achieved the rank of First Strike Leader of the Acoma, and that the honours that earned him this postion were many.’

  Mara paused and faced east; and the small gap left in the circle was now filled by a white-robed priest of Chochocan, who wore armlets woven of thyza reed, and whose presence symbolized life. The Lady of the Acoma bowed in deference to the god, then began to recite the memorable deeds of Papewaio’s service, from the first day of his oath to the Acoma natami. As she spoke, the priest shed his mantle. Naked but for his symbols of office, he danced in celebration of the strong, brave warrior who lay in state upon the bier.

  The list of Papewaio’s honours was a lengthy one. Well before the recitation ended, Mara had to struggle to keep her composure. Yet as her account faltered, the guests did not fidget or show boredom. Life and death, and the winning of glory according to the code of honour, were a subject central to the Tsurani civilization; the deeds of this particular servant of the Acoma were impressive. Rivalry, hatred, even blood feud did not extend past the borders of death, and so long as the priest danced in remembrance of Papewaio, the Lord of the Minwanabi and every distinguished guest acknowledged the renown of the deceased.

  But no warrior’s prowess could accomplish immortality. Eventually Mara reached the night when the blade of a thief had ended a brilliant career. The dancer bowed to the earth before the bier, and the Lady of the Acoma turned west, where a red-robed priest stood in the small gap in the circle. She bowed in respect to the representative of the Red God; and the priest in service to the Death God threw off his mantle.

  He was masked with a red skull, for no mortal might know the face of death until his turn came to greet the Red God, Turakamu. The priest’s skin was dyed scarlet, and his armlets were woven of serpent skins. Again Mara raised her voice. She managed the last with flawless poise, for her life now balanced upon her ability to play the Great Game. In ringing tones she described the death of a warrior. And with true Tsurani appreciation of theatre and ceremony, she made her account an accolade to the honour of Papewaio.

  The priest of Turakamu danced a warrior’s death, with bravery, glory, and honour that live on in memory. When he finished, he drew a black knife and slashed the scarlet cords that bound Papewaio’s wrists. The time for flesh was ended, and the spirit must be freed from its bondage to death.

  Mara swallowed, her eyes dry and hard. From the priest of Turakamu she accepted the flaming torch that burned at the foot of the bier. This she raised skyward, with a silent prayer to Lashima. Now she must name Papewaio’s successor, the man who would assume his former duties so that his spirit would be free of mortal obligation. Saddened, Mara strode to the head of the bier. With trembling fingers she fixed the red reed to the warrior’s helm. Then she plucked away the officer’s plume, and turned to face the still ranks of the Acoma soldiers who closed the north end of the circle.

  ‘Arakasi,’ she said; and though her summons was barely above a whisper, the Spy Master heard.

  He stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘I pray to the gods I have chosen wisely,’ Mara murmured as she gave the torch and the plume into his hands.

  Arakasi straightened and regarded her with dark, enigmatic eyes. Then, without comment, he turned and cried out for his companion at arms, Papewaio. The priest of Chochocan re-entered the circle with a reed cage that contained a white-plumed tirik bird, symbol of the spirit of rebirth. As the flames touched the kindling stack beneath Papewaio’s muscled corpse, the priest slashed the reed constraints with a knife. And Mara watched, her eyes misted, as the white bird shot skyward and vanished into the rain.

  Fire hissed and cracked, smoky in the dampness. The guests waited a respectful interval before they filed slowly back to the estate house. Mara remained, along with her fifty warriors and her newly chosen honour guard, waiting for the fire to burn out and the priests of Chochocan and Turakamu to gather Papewaio’s ashes. These would be enclosed within an urn and buried beneath the wall of the Acoma contemplation glade, to honour the fact that Papewaio had died in loyal service to the family. For a time, Mara was alone with Arakasi, away from the scrutiny of the guests.

  ‘You did not bring Nacoya with you,’ Arakasi murmured, his words barely audible over the snap of the pyre. ‘Mistress, that was clever.’

  His choice of words pierced the lethargy left by grief. Mara turned her head slightly, studying the Spy Master to analyse the reason for the edge of sarcasm she had detected in his tone. ‘Nacoya is in the estate house, ill.’ Mara paused, waiting for a reply. When none came, she added, ‘We shall be joining her within the hour. Do you think you can keep us alive until evening?’ The remainder of the day had been set aside for contemplation and remembrance of Papewaio. But she referred to the fact that, once away from the bier, the guests would reassume the ongoing machinations of the game; and Arakasi, though competent, was not her most proficient swordsman.

  The Spy Master accepted the implication with the barest indication of a smile. ‘Very wise, indeed, my Lady.’

  And by his tone of relief, Mara understood. He had thought she intended to flee the Minwanabi, now, while she was reunited with her warriors. Nacoya would have agreed to remain behind towards this end, an intentional sacrifice to blind Minwanabi to her mistress’s intention to break and run for home. Mara swallowed, pained again by grief. How readily the old woman might have embraced such a ruse, her abandonment in an enemy house a gambit to ensure Acoma continuance.

  ‘Papewaio was sacrifice enough,’ Mara said, sharply enough for Arakasi to know that flight was the last of her intentions.

  The Spy Master nodded fractionally. ‘Good. You would not have survived, in any event. Minwanabi has ringed his estates with his armies, with the appearance
of safe-guarding the presence of his guests. But over their drink and their dice, his soldiers admit that many others without colours wait outside the estate borders, posing as pirates or roving bands of outlaws, to trap the Lady of the Acoma.’

  Mara’s eyes widened. ‘And how did you know this? By borrowing an orange tunic and mingling with the enemy?’

  Arakasi chuckled, very low in his throat. ‘Hardly that, my Lady. I have informants.’ He regarded his mistress, studying a face that was pale but for the faint flush lent by the heat of the fire. Her slight frame was straight, and her eyes afraid but determined. ‘Since we stay and confront the Lord of the Minwanabi, there are things you should know.’

  Now Mara showed the slightest indication of triumph. ‘Loyal Arakasi. I chose you because I trusted you to hate the Lord of the Minwanabi as I do. We understand each other very well. Now tell me all you know that will help me to humble this man who murdered my family and a warrior who was most dear to my heart.’

  ‘He has a weak link in his household,’ Arakasi said without preamble. ‘A relli in his nest that he does not know about. I have discovered that Teani is an Anasati spy.’

  Mara drew a startled breath. ‘Teani?’ She assessed this and suddenly felt more than the chill of the rain. All along, Nacoya had insisted that the concubine had been more dangerous than Mara credited; and Mara had not listened, a mistake that might have cost her everything she had struggled to gain, for here was a Minwanabi servant who had no concern should Mara’s death cost Jingu his life and honour. In fact, to arrange such a pass would no doubt please Tecuma, as it would avenge Buntokapi’s death and remove the man most likely to cause little Ayaki harm. Mara wasted no time on recriminations but at once began to calculate how this information might be used to her advantage. ‘What else do you know of Teani?’

  ‘The news is very recent. Word just reached me last night.’ Arakasi lifted the plume and, by tilting his head to affix it to his helm, managed to speak directly into Mara’s ear. ‘I know the concubine shares her favours with one of the higher-ranking officers, which the Lord suspects but has not proven. Jingu has many women he calls upon, but she is his favourite. He does not care to do without her … talents long.’

  Mara considered this, gazing into the flames of Papewaio’s pyre; and a memory returned, of fire and dark, when Pape had lain still warm in the courtyard at her feet. Teani had accompanied the Lord of the Minwanabi. While Jingu had made a show of surprise, Teani seemed genuinely startled by Mara’s presence. Jingu had spoken briefly to Shimizu, who had surely been Pape’s executioner, while Teani’s eyes had followed the Minwanabi’s Strike Leader with contempt of a startling intensity. Mara had been preoccupied with Papewaio at the time, and the concubine’s twisted hatred had not seemed significant. Now, though, the memory gained importance, particularly since Teani’s reaction had caused Shimizu discomfort. ‘What is the name of Teani’s lover?’ Mara inquired.

  Arakasi shook his head. ‘I don’t know, mistress. But when we reach the estate house, I can send my agent there to find out.’

  Mara turned her head away as the flames consumed Papewaio’s body. Watching was too painful, and the gesture gave her a better chance to speak to Arakasi over the loud crackle of the flames. ‘I will wager a full year’s harvest it’s Shimizu.’

  Arakasi nodded, his expression set with sympathy as if his Lady expressed some thought on the valour of the departed. ‘No bet, mistress; he’s the most likely candidate.’

  The oil-soaked wood beneath Papewaio finally caught, and flame erupted skyward, hot enough to consume even bone and hardened hide armour. Only ashes would remain when the pyre cooled.

  ‘Pape,’ murmured Mara. ‘You will be avenged along with my father and brother.’ And now, while the sky wept cold drizzle, the fires consumed all that was mortal of the staunchest warrior Mara had known. She waited, no longer cold, her mind preoccupied with the beginning of a plan.

  Mara returned to the Warlord’s suite following Papewaio’s funeral. Soaked to the skin, and accompanied by an honour guard who also dripped wet on the waxed wooden floor, she found Nacoya up from her sleeping mat. In a waspish frame of mind, the old woman ordered Mara’s two maids to stop fussing over the carry boxes for the move to new quarters and attend their mistress at once.

  The Lady of the Acoma fended off the attentions of the maids, sending them back to their packing. Though aware that Nacoya was overwrought, she saw little sense in rushing the process of changing and refreshing herself after the funeral. For now she needed the security of the Warlord’s suite.

  Mara paused long enough to shake her dripping hair loose from its coil. Then she nodded to Arakasi, who placed the urn containing Papewaio’s remains by the carry boxes and stepped forward.

  ‘Go and seek Desio,’ Mara instructed the man who now played the role of warrior. ‘Tell him we will need servants to conduct us and our belongings to the new suite the Lord of the Minwanabi has seen fit to assign the Acoma.’

  Arakasi bowed, showing no sign that his orders would be taken any way but literally. He left in silence, knowing Mara would understand that he would find Desio, but not by the most direct route. The Spy Master would seek his contacts and, with luck, return with the information Mara needed on Teani.

  The weather cleared by sunset, and with the passing of the rain the guests of the Lord of the Minwanabi grew restless with the inactivity of contemplation. A few of them gathered in the larger courtyards, to play mo-jo-go, a gambling card game, while others staged bouts of mock combat between the more skilled warriors of their honour guards, with heavy betting. With Papewaio’s recent death, Mara understandably did not participate; but the casual mingling of Minwanabi’s household staff and the informality of the Lords present offered an ideal chance for Arakasi to gather intelligence. Watching him through the slightly parted screen door of her chambers, Mara could not guess whether the Spy Master had contacts in every major Lord’s retinue, or whether the man’s acting ability enabled him to lure even loyal men into casual conversation. However he garnered his news, by sundown when Arakasi returned with the second of his reports, his information about Teani was astonishingly detailed.

  ‘You were right, Lady. Shimizu is certainly Teani’s lover.’ Arakasi accepted thyza bread and delicately smoked meats from a tray offered by Nacoya. Mara had chosen to eat supper in her rooms and had invited the Spy Master to share her meal.

  The Lady of the Acoma watched with unreadable eyes while Arakasi arranged strips of needra on thyza pastry. His clever fingers rolled the result into a twist, which he ate with the manners of a born noble. ‘More than that,’ he resumed, knowing Mara would take his meaning, ‘Teani has the Minwanabi Strike Leader netted like a fish. He follows along as she pulls, though his better instincts might be inclined otherwise.’

  Here the Spy Master paused in his repast. ‘Last night the two lovers quarrelled.’ He grinned. ‘The servant lighting lamps overheard and stayed around cleaning wicks – he found the conversation fascinating. The man was reluctant to speak to my agent, as the name of their Lord had been mentioned, but whatever the final disposition, Teani has been snappish as a bitch ever since. Shimizu can be expected to do anything to regain her favour.’

  ‘Anything?’ Bored with eating, Mara waved to Nacoya, who brought damp cloths to wipe her face and hands. ‘That does offer possibilities, does it not?’ While Arakasi ate freely, Mara considered: Shimizu had slain Papewaio by treachery; Teani might be forced into manipulating him to admit his Lord had ordered the death of the Acoma officer. As an Anasati spy, Teani had no true loyalty to Jingu. She would be the only servant in his house unwilling to die for Minwanabi honour. Mara made up her mind. ‘I wish you to have a message delivered to Teani,’ she said to Arakasi. ‘Can this be done in secrecy?’

  Now it was the Spy Master’s turn to lose his appetite. ‘If I could presume to guess what plan you have in mind, it is risky, no, dangerous in the extreme. By my assessment, the concubine cannot be depended up
on to protect her true master, the Lord of the Anasati. She has betrayed a master before, perhaps more than one, and I suspect she may have murdered another.’

  Mara, too, had studied Teani’s background, that of an abused street prostitute who had grown to love her profession, and one thing more: twisted ambition. In the past the woman had sold out lovers and friends and even done murder upon men who had visited her bed. At first these acts had been ones of survival; but later she had continued out of greed, and a hunger for power. That Mara shared Arakasi’s opinion of the concubine’s reliability mattered little at this point. ‘Arakasi, if you have a better plan, I will embrace it.’

  The Spy Master gestured in the negative; and deep in his eyes Mara read approval as she said, ‘Very well. Fetch me parchment and pen, and have my message sent to this woman by nightfall.’

  Arakasi bowed and did as he was bid. Inwardly he admired the boldness of Mara’s intentions; yet his sharp eyes did not miss the slight tremble of her hand as she penned the note that would begin her attempt to redress the power-hungry rapacity of the Minwanabi Lord.

  The lamp flame flickered in the draught as Teani paced to the screen and spun around, the mantle fanning an agitated breeze across the cheek of Strike Leader Shimizu. ‘You should not have summoned me at this hour,’ he said, disappointed with himself because already his annoyance was fading. ‘You know that I cannot shirk my duty to attend you, and I am due on watch in an hour.’

  Poised in lamplight with her gold-streaked hair laced with ribbon, Teani took his breath away. The curve of her breasts beneath her thin robe made duty seem unreal. ‘Go on to your watch, then, soldier,’ the concubine said.

  Shimizu lowered his eyes, perspiration glistening on his forehead. If he left now, his mind would not be on his post, and the Lord of the Minwanabi might as well have no guard on his door at all. Trapped between honour and the burning need of his love, the Strike Leader said, ‘You may as well tell me why you asked that I come.’