Robed in formal colours, Mara waved for her bearers to pause before the Council Hall entrance. Surrounded by her tightly clustered bodyguard, and attended by a withered old serving maid, she endured several last-minute adjustments to her costume while Lujan and an honour company of five warriors waited to precede her into the chamber. Kevin stood behind her open litter. Unable to see past her towering jewelled headpiece to gain a view of the chamber, he settled with staring at the antechamber, its splendour unmatched by anything he had seen in his life. The building that housed the High Council was among the more imposing in Kentosani. The council occupied a complex larger than the entire Acoma estate house, with corridors lofty as caverns, each arch and doorway carved with fantastic creatures that earlier generations intended to repel evil influence. The gargoyles remained long after the names of the spirits had been forgotten, their fearsome countenances ignored by those who enjoyed their protection. The floors and ceilings were elaborately patterned, every inch of wall space painted with historical murals. Many of them showed warriors wearing Xacatecas and Minwanabi colours; sometimes he recognized a contingent in Acoma green. Newly appreciative of the Empire’s grand traditions, Kevin felt a stranger to his own culture.
This small city unto itself, with its own entrances and conference chambers independent of the palace proper, was guarded by companies of soldiers levied from all of the houses of the council members. The corridors were lined with armoured warriors in a hundred different colour combinations. Each company was pledged to preserve the peace, taking no sides should disputes lead to violence; however, every Lord ensured this vow was never put to the test, for Tsurani honour held house loyalty above any abstract concept of fair play.
Kevin lost count of badges and colours long before reaching the anteroom. When he had faced Tsurani in the Riftwar, the armies were homogeneous, with perhaps two or three different houses marching under a combined command. But in this antechamber alone, at least a dozen armour patterns he did not recognize identified the houses that provided security for the meeting of Clan Hadama.
A voice called out beyond the entry, ‘The Lady of the Acoma!’ Then a huge pair of drums boomed. Lujan signalled his men to march in lockstep, and as Mara’s bearers moved forward in procession, Kevin caught sight of the drummers.
They stood to either side of the grand entry, clad in what looked like a costume of ancient pelts. The mallets in their hands were carved bone, and their instruments were of painted hide stretched over what close scrutiny revealed to be the inverted shells from gigantic turtles. Kevin made out the tripods underneath, fashioned from a lizardlike creature quilled with spines.
Being a barbarian slave had advantages at times – no one showed surprise that he gawked. If the hallways and corridors had impressed Kevin earlier, the hall of the council itself was overwhelming. Constructed under a circular dome, the hall was surrounded by upper galleries, with polished wooden benches, then descending levels of pillared galleries lined with chairs tantamount to thrones. Each gallery reminded Kevin of the Baron of Yabon’s private box on the festival grounds at the city’s annual fairs, where the start and finish line for horse races were located. The meanest noble family in the Empire was entitled to a seat the equal of the Baron’s in opulence. The most expansive galleries were on the lower levels, nearest the central dais, and many were set back under low canopies painted or embroidered with house symbols – ensuring that those behind and to the sides could not spy upon conferences. Aisles that were really promenades separated them one from the next, so that messengers and retainers might hurry effortlessly about their masters’ bidding. The vast size of the room was necessary; Kevin was astonished by the crowd. The lower levels were packed with Lords in full Tsurani panoply. Colours and plumes and jewelled headdresses made a riotous feast for the eyes.
Kevin closed his gaping mouth with an effort. This was only a clan meeting!
Mara had attempted to explain clan relationships to him, and after a long and frustrating discourse Kevin grasped only a fuzzy concept of how all these notables were affiliated. By his understanding, somewhere back in the dim mists of history, these people had ancestors that were cousins. Bound to customs that seemed a knotwork of contradiction, they clung to what was, in Midkemian logic, an outdated concept of relationship, one that might have held significance in an earlier age, but that now seemed mostly ceremonial. Yet when Kevin had voiced this conclusion, Mara had insisted that clan loyalty was no phantom. Given the right motivation, these separate family factions would unite and die in bloody battle defending their elusive code of identity. It was the very urgency of such relationships that had created the Great Game, for once clan honour was invoked, no house could honourably ignore those ties of blood.
Once past the entry platform and the drummers, Kevin could view the entire chamber. The sheer size made him feel dwarfed. On a dais slightly higher than the ring of seats on the central level of the hall, a man in flowing robes and a massive headdress of green and yellow plumes nodded to Mara’s bearers to set down her litter. Her honour guard retired, to take up position above and behind the concentric circle of seats cut into the lowest tier of galleries, and a snap of her fingers summoned Kevin to assist her to her feet. With the Lady poised on his arm, the Midkemian guided where she pointed: down a shallow stair, to a green-painted awning and a chair carved with shatra bird symbols, in a gallery large enough for all of Mara’s advisers and officers to surround her, should she need them close by. Followed by the ghostly echo of whispered conversation, Kevin kept his eyes down in proper Tsurani submission. He must observe the forms here, distasteful as they were to his beliefs. Fully five thousand people could fill the overhanging galleries, with room for ten thousand more at floor level, if occasion warranted.
As Kevin installed the Lady of the Acoma in her green lacquered chair, he marked that her place was relatively close to the dais. Aware that the time of entry, as well as seating, were cultural indicators of rank, Kevin had already marked the range of fashion and quality of clothing. The Lord farthest from the dais was a poor country relative, by all appearance, for his finery was worn and faded with wear.
But the man upon the dais was a peacock in full plumage! As Kevin performed a slave’s bow beside his Lady’s chair, he risked a peek beneath his lashes.
‘My Lord Chekowara,’ Mara greeted cordially. ‘Are you well?’
The Lord, whose name Kevin recognized as belonging to the Clan Warchief, nodded back, though how he could do so and not topple under the weight of his jewels and plumes was mystifying; the man seemed something of a fop, yet his face was broad and masculine, and almost as black-skinned as that of a native of Great Kesh, the southern empire in Midkemia. Muttering as he rose from obeisance, Kevin commented, ‘If you two are related, it’s many generations back.’
Mara shot him a glance that was half-irritated, half-amused. From the dais, the Lord of the Chekowara smiled, showing an array of ivory teeth. ‘I am most well, Lady Mara. We welcome our most august Ruling Lady to our meeting, and presume that you are well also.’
Mara returned the ritual assurance, then coolly inclined her head to other surrounding lords. As he assumed a slave’s place behind his Lady’s chair, Kevin searched faces for signs of displeasure; yet if any notable present was disappointed by Mara’s timely arrival, nothing showed but Tsurani impassivity. Nearly seventy families had sent representatives to the gathering, and one or several could have been responsible for Mara’s misdirected invitation. Stunned yet again by the scope of Tsuranuanni, Kevin reminded himself that the Hadama were held to be a minor clan in the Empire, no matter how much honour the Acoma had gained. How many powerful houses must a great clan number? By Kevin’s rough estimation, this tiny clan meeting, with advisers, servants, and slaves, put the number of people in this building close to five hundred, with an equal number of soldiers waiting in outer halls. When the mighty of the Empire met in council, Kevin could only imagine the place filled to capacity.
Clea
rly not intimidated, Mara said, ‘I am most pleased to seek council with our cousins and attend this, the first clan meeting since I assumed the Acoma mantle.’
The Lord of the Chekowara’s smile broadened. ‘Much honour and prestige have you brought House Acoma since your father’s untimely death, Lady Mara. You bring pride to our hearts.’
At this many Lords stamped upon the floor in a show of agreement like applause. Others offered congratulations, shouting, ‘Yes, it is so! Much honour!’ and ‘Great success!’
Kevin leaned over to remove Mara’s outer wrap, a light silk embroidered with her house symbol. ‘This fellow’s a snake oil salesman,’ he whispered.
Mara’s brow furrowed under her formal makeup. She risked a hiss of disapproval. ‘I don’t know what snake oil is, but it has the ring of an insult. Now go and stand with Lujan’s guard until I need you.’
Kevin folded the wrap over his arm and retreated up the stair. Once in place among the Acoma honour guard, he made a surreptitious study of the proceedings. The Lord of the Chekowara opened by announcing what seemed like social chat, a list of pending marriages, handfastings, and births, and a longer list of eulogies. Few of the deceased had died of age or infirmity; the phrase ‘fallen honourably in battle’ occurred frequently. Kevin was astonished at the clarity of the acoustics in the hall – when the speakers chose not to mask their voices, they carried to the highest galleries. Kevin listened, mystified, as the Lord of the Chekowara’s rich voice rose and fell as he mourned the passing of notables in the clan. To Lujan he murmured, ‘That calley bird on the dais has all the sincerity of a relli.’
Silently at ease, the Acoma Force Commander did not twitch a muscle; but deepening laugh lines around his eyes betrayed that he stifled a chuckle.
Resigned that he would get nothing from an Acoma soldier on duty, Kevin moved among the litter bearers. Tsurani slaves were not much of an improvement, but at least they noticed when he spoke, even if they only looked confused. Still, Kevin thought, any reaction was better than the stony manner of the warriors. Kevin idled away the passing minutes, observing the comings and goings of the many servants and retainers of the attending Hadama Lords, when an odd behaviour caught his eye. Those who hurried through the vast hall seemed oblivious to the many paintings that adorned the walls save one, a depiction of a fairly nondescript man. Like those around it, it was ancient, but this one had been recently repainted, and for the obvious reason that any who passed by reached out and touched it, often without thought. Kevin nudged the slave next to him. ‘Why do they do that?’
The slave looked discomforted. ‘Do what?’ he whispered, as if speaking were sure to bring instant destruction.
‘Touch that picture of a man.’ Kevin pointed.
‘That’s an ancient Lord. He was Servant of the Empire. It’s good luck to touch him.’ The slave withdrew into himself as if that cryptic reference explained everything. Kevin was about to ask for explanation when a warning glance from Lujan silenced him, and turned him back to watching the proceedings.
No serious political discussion ever took place that he could see. Once the family announcements were finished, slaves thronged in with refreshments, and this Lord or that would arise from his chair and speak with Chekowara or other clansmen. Many flocked around Mara’s chair, and all of them seemed civil, if not friendly. Kevin waited for a second call to order, or some sort of announcement of business, but no such thing ever happened. When the afternoon light faded above the domed chamber, Lord Chekowara lifted his staff of office and thumped a ringing blow on the dais. ‘The meeting of Clan Hadama is concluded,’ he called out, and one by one, according to rank, the lesser Lords bowed to him in parting.
‘Seems like nothing but an absurd party to me,’ Kevin commented.
A soldier in Mara’s honour guard caught his eye, then, in urgent warning to keep silent. Kevin returned his usual insolent grin, and then started: the warrior was Arakasi, clad in full armour and looking every inch the proper warrior. He had perfected military bearing so flawlessly that his presence was overlooked until now. More curious than ever to know why the Spy Master’s attendance had been called for, Kevin shifted from foot to foot until Mara waved him over to replace her wrap.
Kevin walked behind Mara’s litter as her retinue reentered the twilit streets. Lamplighters had just made their rounds, and the imperial quarter of Kentosani glowed softly gold against the darkened sky. As the honour guard formed up to escort Mara to her town house, Arakasi fell in step beside Kevin. Wise enough not to call the Spy Master by name, the Midkemian simply said, ‘Was anything of importance achieved in there?’
Arakasi marched with his hand on his sword, deadly and capable in appearance though it was no secret he was not gifted with a blade. ‘Much.’
Exasperated by his brevity, Kevin probed: ‘Such as?’
The honour guard marched down a wide entrance ramp, with torches blazing in bowls on either side. Below the rise a larger contingent of warriors met them, affording their mistress the added security she would need in the darkening streets. Arakasi said nothing until they had rounded several corners and passed the gates from the imperial precinct.
As they marched into the boulevard beyond, Arakasi murmured, ‘Lady Mara’s clansmen have made plain that she can expect a reasonable degree of support … assuming her alliances do not place other houses at risk. If she encounters trouble from her enemies, she’ll need to invoke clan honour to gain assistance, and the outcome of such a call for aid could not in any way be assured.’
The Midkemian’s puzzlement stayed obvious.
‘Clan honour,’ Arakasi repeated, in his manner of piercing perception. ‘You barbarians.’ The statement held no condemnation; the Spy Master thoughtfully qualified. ‘To draw her clansmen into war, Lady Mara must convince every Lord, from highest to least, that an affront to her house was an insult not only to the Acoma, but to the Hadama Clan as well.’
Kevin inhaled the incense-laden air; they were passing the temple quarter and suffered a momentary interruption as their retinue was forced aside to allow a tribute caravan to pass. The huge, leather-strapped carry cases borne on heavy poles by slaves contained metals, originally brought as plunder from the barbarian world and since dispensed by the Emperor’s High Secretary, who portioned out allotments for the temples. Kevin waited until the guarding ranks of white-armoured imperial warriors passed on before he said, ‘So?’
Arakasi tapped his sword. ‘Calls to Clan are difficult when the families who belong are as politically divided as ours are. For any attacking house is careful to make clear that it is moving against an enemy, not its clansmen. Gifts are often sent as reassurances.’ After a pause, Arakasi added, ‘Lord Desio has been lavish.’
Kevin grinned in appreciation. ‘What you’re telling me is they’re saying, “Don’t invite us unless you’re going to win, because the Minwanabi might stop sending us bribes. But if you’re sure you can destroy them, then we’ll be happy to join in, so we can take our share of the plunder.”’
For the first time since Kevin could remember, the Spy Master smiled outright. Then he loosed a chuckle that swelled into quiet laughter. ‘I would never have thought to put it that way,’ Arakasi allowed. ‘But that’s precisely what they told her.’
‘Damn.’ Kevin shook his head in amazement. ‘And I saw nothing going on except a gala.’
From the litter, Mara interjected, ‘Now you understand why I keep him around. His perspective is … fresh.’
Arakasi resumed his soldier’s appearance, but a gleam lingered in his eyes. ‘I agree, mistress.’
‘I don’t know that I’ll ever understand you people,’ Kevin said. He dodged to avoid a jigabird that had escaped some scullion’s cleaver. They had entered the residential quarter now, and the lamps were more widely spaced. ‘I stood and watched that entire meeting, and the only discussion that got heated enough to seem important sounded like a debate on land reform.’
‘In council,’ Arakasi sai
d patiently, ‘what is not said is far more important: who does not approach a Lord’s chair, and who hangs back, and who is seen with whom count for more than words. The fact that Lord Chekowara did not leave his dais to personally congratulate Mara on her border treaty was revealingly significant. The clan will not follow her lead. And all of that shuffling of bodies around Lord Mamogota’s chair was proof that two factions within the clan support him, against our Lady. No one would seriously consider that nonsense about giving land to peasant farmers. The Party for Progress is without influence outside the Hunzan Clan, and Lord Tuclamekla of that clan is a close friend of Mamogota’s. This was a dead issue before the meeting began.’
‘So you presume that the intercepted message was arranged by Lord Mamo-whoever?’ Kevin surmised.
‘We hope so,’ Arakasi answered. ‘Mamogota’s at least not affiliated with the Alliance War. He might take Desio’s “gifts”, but he isn’t a Minwanabi supporter.’
Kevin shook his head in amazement. ‘You people have minds that twist like knitting. Never mind,’ he interjected as Arakasi asked after the concept of knitting. ‘Just take it that I’ll be an old codger long before I understand this culture.’
The silence between slave and Spy Master lasted until the return to the town house. Kevin entered the lovely inner garden and helped his Lady from her litter. He continued to doubt if he would ever truly know the people whose lives and fates he shared. As Mara retained his hand and smiled up at him, he looked into her dark eyes and found himself utterly lost. Tsurani life might be a puzzle to him, but this woman was a mystery and a wonder.
• Chapter Fifteen •
Chaos
The spectacle began.
Banners flew from every tall building along the avenues leading to the arena. Citizens tossed flowers into the street, to assure the gods they held no envy for those of loftier station. For reasons only the God of Trickery might name, city dwellers invested favour in this house or that, cheering more or less vigorously depending upon who passed. Mara’s litter and escort were greeted with loud applause. Again dressed as a common servant, and placed behind the litter alongside Kevin in the cortege, Arakasi commented, ‘It seems the mob favours the Acoma this month, my Lady. The victory in Tsubar has made you a heroine among the commoners.’
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 88
