Removed from the bustle, Mara sat in the courtyard with pen in hand, scribbling notes to Keyoke and Nacoya. To ensure other houses could not pry into her affairs, the Lady entrusted Lujan to carry her missive to the fastest bonded guild messenger. ‘Add this verbal message to my report,’ she instructed. ‘I want the bulk of our army ready to march at a moment’s notice, and as near to Kentosani as Keyoke thinks prudent. We must stand prepared for any turn of events.’
Dressed in the plain armour he preferred for the field, Lujan accepted the sealed parchments. ‘We prepare for war, my Lady?’
Mara said, ‘Always.’
Lujan bowed and left without banter. Mara set down her pen and rubbed cramped fingers. She took a deep breath and held it a moment, then let it slowly out, as she had been taught at the temple. Kevin had forced her to see the ways of her people with new eyes; she understood that greed and ambition were masked by tradition, and honour became the justification for endless hatred and blood. The young Emperor might strive to change his people, but the Great Game would not be abolished at a stroke by imperial edict. No matter what she felt, no matter how tired she became, no matter what regret came her way, Mara knew there would always be the struggle. To be Tsurani was to struggle.
Kevin had thought the great hall was impressive, but the Imperial Palace complex beyond the High Council’s meeting place was even more grandiose. Mara’s retinue entered portals wide enough to admit three wagons drawn abreast. Behind, doors whose weight required a dozen slaves to shift boomed closed. Sunlight vanished, leaving a dry, wax-scented dimness lit purple-blue by cho-ja globes suspended on ropes from a ceiling over two storeys high. The corridor was immense, with worn flagstone floors, and two levels of galleries rising up on either side. Off these were doorways painted in riotous colours; each led to an apartment assigned to a council member’s family, with those closest to the outer walls belonging to the lowest in rank.
‘Forward,’ commanded Strike Leader Kenji to the honour guard, his voice a flurry of echoes off a ceiling dim under layers of varnish and dust.
Kevin marched at mid-column, beside his Lady’s litter. Except for the Acoma retinue, the hallway was largely empty. Servants in imperial livery moved briskly from this task to that, but otherwise the enormous complex appeared deserted.
‘Which is the Acoma apartment?’ Kevin inquired of the nearest bearer slave.
The Tsurani returned a look of disgust at Kevin’s irrepressible tongue, but out of pride he could not resist giving answer. ‘We are not on the first hall, but the seventh.’
A moment later, Kevin understood the odd reply, when the honour guard turned a corner and he saw a vast intersection ahead, where several other corridors joined in a concourse. ‘Gods, this place is huge.’ Then he looked up and saw that this section had four tiers of galleries, accessed by wide stone staircases that zigzagged between landings. Yet for all the grandeur, the building seemed empty.
Then he realized that, unlike the area that housed the council hall, these passages had no mixed companies of guards on duty. ‘It’s so quiet.’
Mara peeked out of her litter curtains. ‘Everyone is at the docks, bidding the Emperor and his honour company farewell. This is why we hurried here – better chance to enter unobserved. I did not want to risk meeting Imperial Guards right now.’
They ascended no stairs. The Acoma apartment complex was situated at ground level near a slight bend, and identified by a lacquered green door with a shatra bird seal. The corridor stretched away from the crook for a hundred yards in each direction, with gigantic portals and more intersecting halls at either end. By now Kevin had deduced that the apartments were arrayed in semicircles around the central dome that housed the High Council hall. Set out in blocks, another three hundred or so small complexes turned this section of the palace into a warren of halls and passages.
Two massive apartment complexes stood adjacent to Mara’s, and opposite lay the residence of House Washota, its green and blue doors securely closed. Past the bend, the doorways had yet more majestic decorations, from vaulting arches obscured by sixty-foot-high silken hangings, to carpeted stairs and urns overflowing with flowers. These were the apartments of the Five Great Families, with the smaller gallery complexes above reserved for guests and vassals. The allotment of space was by rank, but barracks room did not vary. Every Lord in the Empire could dwell within the Imperial Palace with a maximum retinue of twelve.
Yet Mara had brought fully thirty Acoma warriors into the palace precinct. Though technically she flouted a rule to do so, there were no patrols mustered in the corridors. In unstable times she knew full well that other Lords would do likewise, or bring still more warriors if they could manage it.
At Kenji’s discreet tap, the green door opened. Inside, two guards bowed to their mistress and made way for her retinue to enter.
Jican bowed also, as her litter was set down in the small anteroom. ‘The area is safe, Lady,’ said the hadonra, and at his shoulder, Lujan gave Mara a slight nod.
Then the rest of the warriors crowded through the outer door, leaving Kevin barely enough space to raise his Lady from her litter. Judged by the standards of the town house, the apartment seemed spartan. The wooden floors held little beyond old woven carpets and cushions, and an occasional ceramic oil lamp. And then Kevin realized: the heavier furniture had been moved to block all the windows and doors. The apartment was three rooms deep, and the inner chambers opened into a small terrace courtyard. But today the Tsurani passion for breezeways and open doors was sacrificed for safety. Several screens had been nailed shut and backed with heavy wooden barricades.
‘Expecting an attack?’ Kevin asked no one in particular.
‘Always,’ Mara answered. She looked sad as she reviewed the steps her warriors had taken to secure her family quarters. ‘We may not be the only house to realize that now is the perfect time to enter without attracting notice. Imperial Whites will always be on duty in the Imperial Family’s complex, but without council-sanctioned guards, this area is now a no-man’s-land. We travel these halls and concourses at our own peril.’
While the bearers began the task of piling Mara’s carry boxes against an outside screen, Arakasi arrived, his face drenched in perspiration. He wore the loincloth and sandals of a messenger, and his hair was tied back with a ribbon too dirty for anyone to reliably determine its colour.
Mara threw off her travelling robe, a look of inquiry on her face. ‘You look like a merchant’s runner.’
Arakasi replied, eyes alight with sly humour, ‘Runners wearing house colours are being waylaid by everybody.’
This drew a slight laugh from Mara, who softened at Kevin’s blank look and explained. ‘Merchants’ runners often don house colours, because that discourages street urchins from throwing stones at them. But now a messenger in house colours is apt to be seized for information. Since stone bruises are less to be feared than torture, roles have been reversed.’ She asked Arakasi, ‘What news?’
‘Strange bands of men move through the shadows. They hide their armour under cloaks and carry no badge of house service. Imperial servants give them a wide berth.’
‘Assassins?’ Mara asked, and her eyes held her Spy Master’s without shifting as a servant retrieved the robe that trailed from her fingers.
Arakasi shrugged. ‘They could be that, or some Lord’s army being smuggled into the city. They might also be agents of the Emperor sent under cover to see who seeks to break the peace. Someone highly placed let slip some information that has caused a stir of talk.’
Mara sank down onto a nearby cushion and motioned permission for the others to retire.
But Arakasi declined. ‘I won’t be staying, except to add that it appears that some of the demands made by the King upon the Emperor are … very odd.’
This piqued Kevin’s interest. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Reparations.’ In spare tones, the Spy Master qualified. ‘Lyam demands something on the order of a hundred million c
entis to compensate his nation for damages.’
Mara shot straight on her cushions. ‘Impossible!’
Kevin calculated and realized that the Midkemian sovereign was being generous. In Kingdom terms, Lyam was asking for something close to three hundred thousand golden sovereigns, which would barely replace the cost of keeping the Armies of the West in the field for nine years. ‘That’s half of what he should ask for.’
‘The amount is not the issue, but the concept of paying damages,’ Mara said in acute frustration. ‘Ichindar cannot do so and keep his honour. It would shame Tsuranuanni before the gods!’
‘Which is why the Light of Heaven refused,’ Arakasi cut in. ‘Instead, he takes a “gift” of rare gems to the young King, the value of which should approximate a hundred million centis.’
Appreciative of the Emperor’s ingenuity, Mara smiled. ‘Not even the High Council can deny his right to give another monarch a gift.’
‘There’s this other thing.’ Arakasi’s dark eyes flicked meaningfully to Kevin. ‘Lyam wishes a prisoner exchange.’
This drew a strange, emotionally weighted look between the barbarian slave and his mistress. With a strange reluctance to her tone, Mara turned back to Arakasi. ‘I understand what he asks for, but will Ichindar?’
Arakasi returned the openhanded shrug of the Tsurani. ‘Who can say? Giving slaves to the King of the Isles is not an issue. Lyam could do as he pleased with them. More to the point, what would the Emperor do with our returning war captives?’ A silence developed, for it was true that in Tsuranuanni the honour and freedom of such men could never be restored.
Suddenly tired, Mara studied her feet. The bruises left since her flight from the arena had nearly faded, but emotional wounds between Kevin and herself over issues of slavery and freedom ached still. ‘You have word on the Minwanabi?’
As if he had prompted the change of subject, Arakasi’s mouth thinned. ‘They ready more than three thousand soldiers for war.’
Alarmed, Mara looked up. ‘They are coming to the Holy City?’
‘No.’ But the Spy Master had only thin reassurance to offer. ‘They merely ready themselves upon the Minwanabi estates.’
Mara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
But it was Lujan who answered, and bitterly, from the doorway, where he paused after appointing his warriors to guard posts by every window and door. ‘Desio fears the imperial peace with reason, my Lady. If you abandon conflict with the Minwanabi, you renounce only a commitment to blood feud. Some might judge Acoma honour compromised, but who would fault you for obeying the Light of Heaven? But if the Emperor forces peace among warring houses, Desio forfeits his blood oath to Turakamu. He must destroy us before the Emperor’s power becomes too strong to challenge, or offend the Death God.’
Kevin took the liberty of asking a servant to bring his Lady a cool drink. He could sense her effort at self-control as she asked, ‘Would Desio risk attacking the Emperor?’
Arakasi shook his head. ‘Not openly, but should the High Council find cause to unite against Ichindar’s will, Desio would have the largest army within striking distance of the Holy City. That offers a dangerous combination.’
Mara chewed her lip. With the Omechan Clan divided between Decanto and Axantucar, the danger was apparent: Desio could become the new Warlord if a large enough faction of the High Council decided to use force to defy imperial edict.
Kevin added an unwelcome observation to this reflection. ‘Three thousand Minwanabi swords outside the Council Hall could make a persuasive argument even if Desio doesn’t have a clear majority.’
Wrung by more than fatigue, Mara regarded the drink brought in by the servant as if it contained deadly poison. Then she put off dark thoughts. ‘The truce meeting beyond the rift won’t happen for another three days. Until Ichindar and Lyam fail in negotiations, all is speculation. Now that we are safely within the palace, let us enjoy this quiet time.’
Arakasi bowed more deeply than usual and, like a wraith, departed. Mara watched the doorway for long minutes after he left, and returned to life only when Kevin settled beside her and gathered her into his arms. Trembling, afraid to voice the uneasiness she felt inside, Mara finished her thought. ‘I fear much is carried upon the shoulders of a very young man, and while the gods may favour our Light of Heaven, they also may turn away from him.’
Kevin pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head. He held no illusions. Like her, he understood that the best they could hope for was that Arakasi could garner a last-minute warning in the hour before an enemy attack.
For three days the Empire seemed to hold its breath. Outside the palace, the Holy City struggled back to normality, as workers finished repairs to the last damaged dock and masons borrowed fallen stonework from the arena to fix the gateways to the Imperial Palace. Fishermen left before dawn to draw their nets through the currents of the river Gagajin, and farmers drove the late season’s crops in on heavily burdened wagons, or floated them in on barges. Temple incense and flowers prevailed over the smell of the cremated dead, and vendors set up open air stalls within the roofless walls of their shops. Once more their singsong voices called their wares to the attention of passersby.
And yet all these sounds and signs of industry held dreamlike transience, even for the poor and the beggars who stood furthest from the centre of power. Rumours respected no class boundaries. And like the wrecked timbers still heaped like bones between the fabric of makeshift walls, disquieting undercurrents dogged the City’s normality. Tsuranuanni’s Emperor was upon another world, and Iskisu, the God of Trickery and Chance, held the balance-not only the peace of two peoples, but the stability of an ancient nation: all hinged upon the meeting of minds between two young rulers from vastly different cultures.
Deprived of the solace of her courtyard and fountains, Mara spent her hours within the small room in the centre of the apartment. With soldiers camped in the chambers on either side, and guards at each door and window, she studied notes and messages and maintained cautious contact with other Lords. Arakasi showed up almost hourly, in the guises of bird seller, messenger, and even mendicant priest. He had not slept, but laboured tirelessly between brief naps, employing every tool at his disposal to discover even the faintest shred of information that might be of use.
In an adjoining room, Lujan held sword drill with his soldiers, one man at a time. The waiting frayed everyone’s nerves, the warriors’ most of all, since they could do nothing but stand through endless idle hours on watch. Several more Acoma companies had slipped into the city, and by dint of clever planning and the use of a carpet dealer’s cart, more warriors had been smuggled into the imperial precinct. Mara’s apartment garrison now numbered fifty-two, and Jican complained. His scullions could not scrub pots without banging into scabbards, and Lujan would have warriors sleeping four deep on the carpets if he continued to muster more troops. But the numbers of warriors were unlikely to swell beyond the current count, for the Acoma as well as other houses. Imperial Guards had noticed the influx of soldiers into the palace and were now inspecting all inbound wagons and servants to limit potential combatants.
Racing footsteps echoed through the outer corridor. The tap of the runner’s sandals passed through the walls, a ghostly, whispered counterpoint to the clack and snap of swordplay between Lujan’s sparring warriors. Mara heard, from her desk in the middle of the chamber. She stiffened and looked wildly at Kevin. ‘Something has happened.’
The Midkemian did not ask how she knew, or why this set of hurried steps should be different from those of any of the dozen or so runners that had passed by the apartment within the hour. Bored with being cooped up, and with the endless, dragging hours that passed between Arakasi’s reports, Kevin bowed to the warrior he had challenged at dice, and crossed the chamber to sit with his Lady. ‘What’s to do?’ he murmured.
Mara regarded the inkwell and parchment on her lap desk. The pen in her hands was dry, and the letter unmarked, except for the name of Hokanu of t
he Shinzawai in careful characters at the top. ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘There is nothing to do, except wait.’
She set down her quill and, to keep her hands busy, picked up the Acoma chop. She did not say, and Kevin did not remind her, that Arakasi was late. He had promised to stop by in the morning, and by the white slash of sunlight that glared through the barricaded screens, noon had come and gone.
Long minutes passed, filled by the patter of more runners, and the muffled, excited tones of someone speaking urgently from an apartment several doors down. The thin plaster and lath partitions between domiciles were not impervious to sound. While Mara made a pretence of trying to concentrate on the wording of her message, Kevin touched her shoulder, then slipped away into the kitchen to make hot chocha.
When he returned, the Lady had done little but dip her quill. The ink had set in the nib. Arakasi had not returned. When Kevin set the tray on top of the parchment, Mara did not protest. She accepted the filled cup he handed her, but the drink cooled untasted. By then her nerves were showing, and she started up at the slightest sound. More steps passed by, all running.
‘You don’t suppose somebody’s holding footraces, and making odds to pass the time?’ Kevin suggested in an attempt at humour.
Lujan appeared in the doorway, soaked with sweat from his exercises, and still gripping his unsheathed sword. ‘Footracers don’t wear battle sandals with studs,’ he commented dryly. Then he looked at Mara, who sat as still as a figure in a china shop, with too little colour in her face. ‘My Lady, at your word, I could go out and find a rumourmonger.’
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