Mara felt too spent to argue. Jican would know the knife was missing; if her hadonra had not seen fit to report the theft, inquiry would be met with shrugs and blank looks unless she were to pose a direct question. The hadonra and her Midkemian slave had evolved a complex relationship over the years. Between them, most issues were cause for unending bickering, but in the select few areas they agreed upon, it was as if a blood oath held them together.
Near midnight, a knock sounded on the outer door of the Acoma apartment. ‘Who passes?’ called the guard on duty.
‘Zanwai!’
Roused from a half-doze where she lay in Kevin’s arms, Mara ordered urgently, ‘Open the door!’
She clapped for her maid to bring an overrobe, then motioned for Kevin to assume a position of more propriety, while her warriors lifted down the heavy bar and slid back the tabletop pressed into service as siege shutter. The portal opened into a dark, lampless corridor and admitted an old man, bleeding from a blow to the head. He was supported by an equally wounded guard, who looked over his shoulder as if expecting pursuit. Lujan hurried the pair into the apartment, then spun to help the guards bolt and bar the door behind them. Mara had a sleeping mat pulled out of the room that served as an officers’ barracks. Her own servants relieved the injured warrior of his master’s weight and made the old Lord comfortable with pillows.
Strike Leader Kenji arrived with a satchel of remedies, and it was he who washed and dressed the old man’s head wound, while another of Mara’s warriors helped the soldier out of his armour. His cuts also were tended, the deepest ones spread with salve and tightly bound. None were life-threatening. Mara sent her servant to bring wine, then inquired what had befallen.
Still pale from shock and pain, the old man fixed eyes of startling blue upon his hostess. ‘An inopportune fate, my Lady. I dined late this night with my cousin, Decanto of the Omechan, in celebration of my support for his claim to the white and gold. As I was making ready to depart, his apartment was overwhelmed by soldiers wearing unmarked, black armour. Lord Decanto was the target of their attack. I just happened to be in the way. Decanto was still fighting when we escaped.’
The servant arrived with a tray of filled goblets. Mara waited until her guests had been served, the warrior accepting his drink with his one unbandaged hand. Delicately she asked, ‘Who sent such soldiers?’
The old man tasted his wine, half smiled his appreciation of the vintage, then grimaced as the expression pulled at his cuts. ‘Any one of six other cousins, I fear. The Omechan are a large clan, and Almecho appointed no clear heir from his Oaxatucan nephews. Decanto was the obvious successor …’
‘But someone else disagrees,’ Mara prompted.
Lord Zanwai pressed the cloth against his scalp and scraped back a damp strand of hair. ‘Decanto is the first son of Almecho’s eldest sister. Axantucar is the older because he was born first, but his mother was a younger sister, so that leaves a mess. Almecho, curse his black soul, thought he was immortal. A wife and six concubines, and not one son or daughter.’
Mara considered, sipped her own wine, then said, ‘You’re welcome to stay, my Lord. Or if you prefer your own quarters, I’ll offer a guard of my warriors to escort you back.’
The old man inclined his head. ‘My Lady, I am in your debt. If I may, I will stay. It is a killing ground out there. I had an honour guard of five. We eluded no less than six companies of men…. I fear four of my warriors lie dead or dying. There were other armoured bands afoot, but the gods be thanked, they ignored my last man and me.’
Quietly Lujan doubled the guards at the door. Then he leaned on the lintel between the chambers, and out of habit squinted along the edge of his blade. ‘Did all wear black armour like the ones who attacked you?’
‘I did not see,’ the old man said.
The wounded warrior did better. Revived a bit by the wine, he grated, ‘No. Some were like that. Others wore Minwanabi orange and black – Lord Tasaio must have arrived in Kentosani tonight. And still others were … tong.’
Mara almost spat. ‘Assassins! Here in the Imperial Palace?’
Over the shiningly perfect edge of Lujan’s weapon, the eyes of Lady and Force Commander met. The one recalled and the other knew that Mara had once almost died at the hands of a hired tong killer, dispatched to her home by Jingu of the Minwanabi.
The warrior continued bleakly with his tale. ‘They were tong, my Lady. Black robes and headcloths, hands dyed in colours, swords across their backs. They swept through on silent feet, glanced at our colours to determine our family, then passed on. We were not their chosen prey this night.’
Kevin arose and joined Lujan by the screen track between the rooms. Softly he asked, ‘What are “tongs”?’
Lujan ran his thumb over his blade. No unseen flaws met his touch, but a frown marred his complacency nonetheless. ‘Tongs,’ he said in a dead, flat tone, ‘are brotherhoods, families without clan or honour. Each tong holds allegiance to no one and nothing save their “Obajan”, the Grand Master, and their outlaw code of blood. Politely put, they are criminals who have no respect for tradition.’ The sword flashed in the lamplight as the Force Commander turned it. ‘Some of them, like the Hamoi, make of their unclean craft a renegade religion. They believe the souls of their victims are true prayers in praise of Turakamu. To them, murder is holy.’ Lujan sheathed his sword, and his tone assumed a grudging admiration. ‘They make terrible enemies. Many of them train from childhood, and they kill most efficiently.’
‘I know who wants me dead,’ Mara said, the wineglass forgotten in her hand. ‘Tasaio has enough strength to threaten me directly. So then, who dares hire tongs into the palace?’
Lord Zanwai tiredly shrugged his shoulders. ‘These are reckless times. Rivalries run hot enough that a slain man could have had his death bought by any of a dozen factions, and the work of a tong is not traceable.’
‘Brother could kill brother, and never be accused of disloyalty.’ Mara set down her goblet and clenched her hands to still their shaking. ‘Almost, I wish this matter could be settled in open war. The killing at least might be cleaner.’
A bitter laugh met her words. ‘Dead is dead,’ said Lord Zanwai. ‘And any contest on a battlefield would see Minwanabi take the prize.’ He put down his wineglass. ‘I judge the tong more likely in Tasaio’s employ, simply because overt display of Minwanabi arms might frighten potential allies into supporting another claimant to the white and gold – and it is rumoured the Minwanabi have had dealings with the tongs in the past.’ Mara chose not to mention that she had certain knowledge this was correct. ‘The real question is who sends soldiers without house colours through the palace?’
Sadly, silently, Mara conceded the truth. One could only guess; certain knowledge might never be hers. She called for servants to clear one of the guest rooms of warriors for Lord Zanwai’s use. ‘Rest well,’ he said as one of her men helped him stiffly to his feet. ‘May all here live to see the morning.’
Throughout the night, the palace echoed with shouts, running feet, and sometimes the crack of swords in distant combat. No one slept, except in snatches. Mara lay long hours in Kevin’s arms, but the best she managed was a fitful doze that led to bloody nightmares. Acoma soldiers stood watch in shifts, ready for any attack upon their Lady’s quarters.
An hour before sunrise, a bump outside the apartment door caused the warriors on guard to draw weapons. ‘Who passes?’ called Lujan.
The low voice that answered was Arakasi’s.
Mara had given up trying to sleep. She waved away the maid who arrived to help her dress, while the door was unbarred and opened and the Spy Master let inside. His hair was matted with dried blood and he cradled one forearm in the crook of his elbow; the flesh above the wrist bore an ugly lump and a purple mass of swelling.
One look, and Lujan said tersely, ‘We’re going to need a bonesetter.’ He caught the Spy Master strongly beneath the shoulder on his uninjured side, and helped his unsteady feet acro
ss the floor and onto the sleeping mat that had served Lord Zanwai the night before.
‘No bonesetter,’ Arakasi grunted as his knees folded and he settled back on the cushions. ‘It’s chaos out there. Unless you sent half a company, a messenger would have a knife in him before he crossed the first concourse.’ The Spy Master looked meaningfully at Lujan. ‘Your field medicine will do well enough.’
‘Find Jican,’ Mara snapped to her maid. ‘Tell him to bring spirits.’
But Arakasi held up his sound hand, forestalling her. ‘No spirits. I have much to tell, and a bang on the head has me dizzy enough without making my wits stupid with drink.’
Mara said, ‘What has happened?’
‘A battle between unknown warriors in black armour and a dozen assassins of the Hamoi tong.’ Arakasi fell silent as Lujan examined the cut in his scalp, then unstrapped his bracers and set to cleaning away scabbed blood with rags and water brought in a basin by the maid.
As the injury was bared to light, the Force Commander said softly, ‘Fetch the lamp.’
The maid did so, and Mara waited through a worried interval while Lujan held the flame before Arakasi’s eyes and watched for response from the pupils. ‘You’ll do,’ he said presently. ‘But the scar might grow back in white hair.’
That brought a curse from the Spy Master. The last thing a man in his profession might desire was a distinguishing feature to mark him.
Lujan turned next to the arm. ‘My Lady,’ he said gently, ‘you might do better in the next room, but leave me Kevin and one of the warriors who wins at arm wrestling.’
Arakasi murmured a protest, then said clearly, ‘Just Kevin.’
The Spy Master looked paler when Mara was allowed to return. Beneath clipped hair and a fresh dressing, his face was running sweat. Yet he had made no outcry when Lujan had set his arm. Kevin’s comment as he returned to his accustomed corner was ‘Your Spy Master’s tough as old sandal leather.’
Mara waited patiently while her Force Commander finished with splint and bandages. Once Arakasi was arranged with his arm settled on pillows, she sent a servant to bring wine. ‘Don’t speak until you are ready.’
Arakasi looked back in impatience. ‘I’m ready not to be fussed over.’ He nodded his thanks as Lujan stood to depart, then turned dark eyes to his Lady, all business. ‘At least three more Lords were murdered or injured. Several others withdrew from the palace and fled to their town houses or back to their estates. I have a list.’ He shifted awkwardly and produced a paper from his robe.
The servant arrived with the wine. Despite his insistence on abstinence, Arakasi accepted a glass. He drank while his mistress scanned his hasty notes, and a little colour returned to his face.
‘The dead are all supporters of Tasaio and Lord Keda,’ Mara summed up. ‘You think the killers are being underwritten by either the Ionani or the Omechan faction?’
Arakasi sighed deeply and set down his glass. ‘Perhaps not. Axantucar of the Oaxatucan also suffered an attack.’
Mara heard this without surprise, for he had strong rivals within his own faction. ‘How did he fare?’
‘Well enough.’ Eyes closed, the Spy Master forced himself to relax. With his head tipped back against the wall, he added, ‘All the attackers died, which is surprising. They were tong.’
But Axantucar was always a competent fighter; he, too, had managed armies on the barbarian world. Mara observed her Spy Master and noted that tension had not quite left him. ‘You know more.’
‘I wish that I did not, mistress.’ Arakasi opened eyes that shone too bleak. ‘A delegation of Lords went to the imperial barracks and presented the Commander of the Emperor’s garrison with a demand. They wished three companies of Imperial Whites to guard the Council Hall. The Commander refused. Since the Light of Heaven has called no official council, the halls are not his responsibility. The duty appointed him was to protect the Imperial Family, and he would send no soldiers away from their post unless his Emperor saw fit to give orders.’
Mara tapped her wineglass in a fever of suppressed irritation. ‘When will the Emperor return?’
‘Noon tomorrow, by all reports.’
Mara sighed. ‘Then we have no choice but to endure. Order will be restored when the Emperor steps into the palace.’
Kevin raised his eyebrows. ‘His presence alone will do that?’
Dryly, Arakasi corrected, ‘The five thousand soldiers he brings with him will do that.’ He went on to add, ‘The great Lords have made their case adamantly. Also the Chief Priests of the Twenty Orders adjourned late last night and proclaimed that the betrayal on Midkemia was evidence of divine anger. Tsurani tradition has been broken, they say, and the Light of Heaven strayed from spiritual to mundane concerns. If Ichindar had the support of the temples, he might command still, but at this point he must relent and allow the council to name a new Warlord.’
‘Then the matter must be settled by noon,’ observed Mara. The reasons were all too clear. Enough misfortune had occurred since the Emperor set his hand in the game. The High Council Lords had shown they would not be displaced. A new Warlord would greet Ichindar upon his return to the palace.
‘Tonight,’ said Arakasi quietly, ‘this building will become a battlefield.’
Kevin yawned. ‘Will we get any sleep before then?’
‘This morning only,’ Mara allowed. ‘We must be at council this afternoon. Today’s meetings will largely decide who lives through tonight. And tomorrow, whoever survives will appoint the new Warlord of Tsuranuanni.’
As Arakasi gathered himself to rise from his pillows, Mara waved him back. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You will stay and rest for the day.’
The Spy Master did little but look at her, yet Mara spoke as if he questioned her aloud. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘This is a command. Only a fool would assume that the Minwanabi will not make an appearance. You have done enough, and more, and Kevin spoke rightly last night. Whether or not there is a threat against the Acoma, I will not leave this council. We are already as prepared as we can be for an attack. If our efforts are not enough, then Ayaki is protected at home.’
Arakasi inclined his white-wrapped head. His fatigue must have been great, for the next time Kevin looked, the nervous intelligence of the man had stilled. Mara’s Spy Master lay in a loose-limbed sprawl, soundly and finally asleep.
Disquiet pervaded the great Council Hall. Mara was not the only ruling noble to enter with more than the traditionally permitted honour guard – the aisles between seats and concourses were packed with armoured warriors, and the hall looked more like a marshalling yard than a chamber for deliberation. Each Lord kept his soldiers at hand, sitting on the floor at his feet, or lined up along the railings between stairways. Any who needed to travel from place to place were forced to take tortuous routes, often stepping over warriors who could only bow their heads and mutter apologies for the inconvenience.
As Mara picked her way between the retinues of two rival factions, Kevin muttered, ‘If one idiot drew a sword in here, hundreds would die before anyone had a chance to ask why.’
Mara nodded. She said softly, ‘Look there.’
In the lowest gallery, the seat opposite the Warlord’s dais at last stood occupied. Warriors in orange and black filled the floor in a wedge formation, and in their midst, clad in battle gear barely more ornamented than an officer’s, sat Tasaio of the Minwanabi. If Kevin had been disappointed by the late Lord Desio’s innocuous appearance, the same could not be said of his cousin’s. Tasaio sat his chair with a relaxed and waiting stillness that even from a distance revealed presence. Kevin was reminded of nothing so much as a tiger. Briefly, Tasaio glanced across the chamber. His eyes locked with Kevin’s for an instant; yet recognition occurred. The face beneath the fluted rim of the helm stayed impassive, but there was no mistaking the shock of awareness that passed between the two men.
Kevin stared a moment longer, then bent his head toward his Lady. ‘The tiger knows we’re outside his
lair.’
Mara arrived at her chair, and sat, and by all appearance seemed occupied with arranging her formal overrobe. ‘Tiger?’
‘Like one of your sarcats, only four legged, twice as big, and a lot more dangerous.’ Kevin assumed his position behind her chair, crowded into the narrow space by the press of extra warriors who normally would have waited on the upper concourse.
Mara took stock of the hall, which seemed more gloomy and, oddly, more resonant to sound. There were empty chairs, with the gloss of armour and sword scabbards more plentiful than fine silks and jewels among the Lords present. As intrigues became more tangled, the talk turned convoluted; words gained layers of meaning, and looks between Lords were all weighted. Each empty place meant a council member dead or intimidated into withdrawal. The factions that remained were resolute, and some caucuses fairly bristled with unspoken aggression.
A council runner brought Mara a note. She slit the seal, glanced at the two chops stamped inside, then motioned for the boy to wait while she read. Lord Zanwai entered, along with a dozen warriors. He appeared recovered from his ordeal the night before, and as a blocked aisle forced him to improvise a route, he chose one that brought him close to Mara. He gifted the Acoma Lady with a smile and slight nod as he passed.
She returned his tacit greeting, then penned a response to the note just received and dispatched the runner to another gallery. To Lujan she said, ‘We’ve gained two more votes, in thanks for Arakasi’s information.’
The morning’s business wore on. Mara exchanged talk with a dozen Lords on seemingly harmless subjects. Although Kevin tried to follow the byplay, he could not discern if the exchanges masked threats or offers of alliance. More and more, he found his eyes drawn to the lower gallery, where Lord after Lord paid court to Tasaio of the Minwanabi. Kevin could not help but notice that the visitors spoke most, while Tasaio largely remained silent. When he did reply, his words were sparse and crisp, as evidenced by the flash of white teeth. The warriors at his sandalled feet moved no muscle all the while, but sat with the inhuman poise of statues.
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 99
