Yet as Mara also waved her body slave from her retinue, the guard put up a restraining hand. ‘One soldier only, my Lady.’
Mara returned a disdainful look. ‘Do slave robes look like armour today?’ Her eyes narrowed, and with all the arrogance she could muster she added, ‘I will not subject an honourably wounded warrior to the duties of a common runner. When I need to send for my escort, the slave will be needed to carry my orders.’
The guard hesitated, and Mara swept past before he could rally and offer argument. Kevin forced himself to follow without a glance back, lest unsubservient behaviour precipitate a quick change of mind about his worthiness to be admitted.
The hall seemed sparsely populated after the previous day, and those Lords present were considerably more subdued. Mara acknowledged a few greetings as she moved to her seat, her eyes busy between times taking stock of empty places. To Arakasi she murmured, ‘At least five Omechan Lords are absent.’
The instant she settled in her chair, a flurry of activity commenced. A dozen notes were placed before her by soldiers who simply bowed and left without waiting for reply. Mara scanned each quickly, then handed the papers to Arakasi, who put them in his tunic without a glance. ‘We have gained,’ she said in amazement.
She pointed to an area that had stayed empty throughout the previous week. Now elaborately robed nobles were arriving to take their seats, with warriors that looked untouched by combat. ‘The Blue Wheel Party is among us.’
Arakasi nodded. ‘Lord Kamatsu of the Shinzawai comes to bargain with others, gaining whatever advantage Lord Keda can command. He and Lord Zanwai will do little more than keep their party from deserting wholesale in the first ten minutes.’
Mara glanced at the company, seeking the familiar face of Hokanu. Only one soldier wore Shinzawai blue, and he was a stranger, wearing the high plume of a Force Commander. Obviously, the heir to the Shinzawai estate was no longer permitted to come where he would be at risk. Mara felt disappointed.
A hush fell over the room as the two highest-ranking Lords entered last. Axantucar, now Lord of the Oaxatucan, stepped down to his chair roughly the same moment as Tasaio. Both walked with haughty bearing, as if they were the only men of consequence in the room. Neither one so much as glanced in the direction of his major opponent.
As soon as each candidate was seated, a number of Lords stood up and moved as if to confer with either Tasaio or Axantucar. Each would halt a moment, as if exchanging a quick greeting, then return to his chair.
Kevin asked, ‘What are they doing?’
‘Voting upon the office of Warlord,’ answered Arakasi. ‘By this act each Lord confirms his allegiance to the claimant he prefers to wear the white and gold. Those who are undecided’ – his hand swept the room – ‘watch and choose.’
Kevin looked down and observed that Mara closely measured the play of the Great Game. ‘When do you go to Oaxatucan?’
‘Not yet.’ Mara’s brow furrowed as she studied the order of nobles who moved across the floor to either the Lord of the Oaxatucan or the Lord of the Minwanabi.
Then, for no reason that was apparent to foreign eyes, Mara abruptly rose and descended the stairs. She crossed the lower floor as if heading toward Tasaio. A hush fell over the room. All eyes watched the slender woman as she mounted the stairs toward the Minwanabi chair. Then she turned and in three short strides came alongside the seat of Hoppara of the Xacatecas. She spoke briefly to him and returned to her place.
Kevin whispered, ‘What was that? Could the boy take the office?’
Arakasi said, ‘It is a ploy.’
Several other Lords moved to speak to Hoppara, and soon it was clear that no other claimant would declare himself. Kevin quickly calculated in his head and said, ‘It’s roughly equal. A quarter for Minwanabi, a quarter for Oaxatucan, a quarter for Xacatecas, and a quarter yet undecided.’
For a long quiet moment no one moved. Lords sat in their finery and looked about, or spoke to advisers or servants. Then another Lord here or there would rise and move to one of the three claimants. After a few moments another pair would rise and make their preference known.
Then Kevin said, ‘Wait! That Lord in the feathered headdress spoke to Minwanabi before. Now he’s speaking to Oaxatucan.’
Mara nodded. ‘The balance shifts back and forth.’
The afternoon wore slowly on. As bars of sunlight moved across the high expanse of the dome, the High Council continued the strange custom that determined primacy among Ruling Lords of the Empire. Twice Mara rose to speak with Lord Xacatecas, showing that her support for the young man was unshaken.
Then, as evening approached, Mara nodded at some unseen signal. The next moment both she and Lord Hoppara rose. As one they moved from their different vantage points and arrived before the chair of Axantucar. A rustle swept the chamber. Suddenly another score of nobles left their places and advanced to stand before the Omechan Lord.
Then Mara returned to her seat and said, ‘Now.’
Kevin saw her eyes move to where Tasaio sat. The Lord of the Minwanabi returned a look of such pure malevolence that Kevin felt chills touch his skin. By now his wounds ached, and his robes itched, and every bruise acquired the night before made standing a trial of endurance.
As Kevin wondered how much longer the council could drag on without resolution, the climate in the hall changed suddenly from waiting stillness to charged expectancy.
Tasaio rose. The great chamber became silent, every Lord motionless in his chair. In a voice that rang loudly in the quiet, the Lord of the Minwanabi said, ‘It is fitting a message be sent to the Light of Heaven that one among us is willing to wear the white and gold, that he will stand first among us to guarantee continuance of the Empire. Let it be known his name is Axantucar of the Oaxatucan.’
A cheer arose from the council gathering, a vast echo of sound that filled the chamber to the highest arch in the ceiling; though Kevin noticed more than half of the Lords responded with little enthusiasm. He asked Arakasi, ‘Why did Minwanabi give up?’
Mara herself returned answer. ‘He was defeated. It is tradition for the Lord who is closest to the victor to proclaim to the Emperor.’
Kevin smiled. ‘That’s a bitter draught.’
The Lady of the Acoma nodded slowly. ‘Bitter indeed.’ As if she noticed the discomfort that wore away at her love’s reserves, she added, ‘Patience. By tradition we must wait until the Light of Heaven sends his acknowledgment of the appointment.’
Kevin bore up as best he could. Despite today’s call to council, and the selection of a new Warlord, the barbarian remained unconvinced that Ichindar was as much a slave to tradition as his Lady thought. Yet he chose to say nothing. Within a half hour a messenger in white and gold livery entered, with a company of the Imperial Whites. They carried a mantle of snowy feathers, the edges trimmed in shining gold. They bowed before the chair of Omechan and presented the cloak to Axantucar.
Kevin studied the new Warlord as the mantle was laid upon his shoulders. While the uncle, Almecho, had been a barrel-chested, bull-necked man, this nephew looked like a slender poet or teacher. His frame was thin to extreme and his face ascetic, almost delicate. But the triumph in his eyes revealed as rapacious a soul as Tasaio’s.
‘He seems pleased,’ said Kevin under his breath.
Arakasi spoke quietly. ‘He should be. He must have spent a large portion of his inheritance to have a half-dozen Lords murdered.’
‘You think the black-clad warriors were his?’
‘Almost without doubt.’
Mara said, ‘Why would he send soldiers against us? We would support any rival of Tasaio.’
‘To prevent unpredictable alliances. And to ensure blame for the general slaughter was placed at Minwanabi’s door.’ Arakasi’s mood turned expansive, perhaps from satisfaction over an enemy’s defeat. ‘He is the victor. Minwanabi isn’t. The tong almost certainly worked for Tasaio. Logically, the other soldiers were Omechan.’
Orde
r returned to the council, and after an uneventful interval of speechmaking, Mara gave Kevin the order to fetch Lujan and her warriors. ‘We return to our town house tonight.’
The Midkemian bowed to her as a proper slave might, and walked slowly from the huge hall with its bejewelled, enigmatic Ruling Lords. Again he concluded that the Tsurani were the strangest race with the most convoluted customs a man might ever encounter.
Calm returned to Kentosani. For an interval Mara and her household rested, healing wounds and assimilating the changes effected in politics since Axantucar’s assumption of the Warlordship. Evenings were festive in the town house as the Lady of the Acoma entertained several influential Lords whose interest now favoured her house. Kevin seemed more disgruntled than usual, but between exhaustion and her social obligations, Mara had little opportunity to deal with his dark mood.
Arakasi sought out his mistress on the third morning as she reviewed communications from several Lords still within the city. Clad in a clean servant’s robe, and content for the moment to let his splinted arm rest openly in a sling, he still gave her the deep bow her rank entitled. ‘Mistress, the Minwanabi retinue has boarded barges upon the river. Tasaio is returning to his estates.’
Mara stood, her pens and papers and messages forgotten in the joy of the moment. ‘Then we may safely return home.’
Again Arakasi bowed, this time lower than before. ‘Mistress, I wish to beg your forgiveness. In all that occurred, I was not prepared for the Lord of the Oaxatucan to rise so quickly to replace his uncle.’
‘You take yourself too harshly to task, Arakasi.’ A shadow crossed Mara’s face, and she moved restlessly to the window. Outside, the trees were shedding blossoms over the streets. Servants still pushed vegetable carts, and messengers still ran on swift feet. The day seemed bright and ordinary, like waking after nightmare. ‘Who among us could have anticipated the murder that was done that night?’ Mara added. ‘Your work spared five Lords, myself among them. I would venture no single person did more, and the result gained the Acoma great prestige.’
Arakasi bowed his head. ‘My mistress is gracious.’
‘I am grateful,’ Mara amended. ‘Come. Let us go home.’
Later that afternoon, the Acoma garrison marched smartly from the town house, Mara’s litter and carry boxes and a wagon bearing the wounded securely in their midst. At the docks, boats waited to take the mistress and her retinue downriver. Settled upon cushions beneath a canopy, with Kevin at her side, Mara regarded the everyday bustle of trade along the waterfront. ‘It is so tranquil. You would think nothing untoward had occurred in the last week.’
Kevin also watched the dock workers, fishermen, and labourers, the occasional beggar and street child interrupting the organized flow of commerce. ‘The common folk are never caught up in the affairs of the powerful – unless they have the misfortune to find themselves in the way. Then they die. Otherwise, their lives go on, each day of work like the next.’
Troubled by an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone, Mara studied the man she had come to love. The breeze ruffled his red hair, and the beard she could never quite become accustomed to. He leaned intently against the rail, the set of his shoulders stiff, the result of the scabs left by battle. The wrist beneath her hands was still bandaged, and the look in his eyes held a bleakness, as if he saw sorrow in the sunlight. She wanted to ask him his thoughts, but a shout from the shore distracted her.
The boatman cast off lines. Polemen began their chant, and the craft slipped away from Kentosani and turned downriver on the seaward pull of the Gagajin. Afternoon breezes snapped the pennons above the canopy, and Mara felt her heart lift. Tasaio had been defeated, and she was returning safely home. ‘Here,’ she said to Kevin. ‘Let us sit with a cool drink.’
The boats passed beyond the lower boundary of the Holy City, and the banks showed the green of land under cultivation. The smell of river reeds mixed with the rich aroma of spring soil and the pungency of ngaggi trees. The towers of the temples receded, and Mara drowsed contentedly, her head against Kevin’s thigh.
A cry from the shore aroused her. ‘Acoma!’
Her Force Commander hailed back from the prow of the first boat, and presently the servants were all pointing to a cluster of tents at the river’s edge. A war camp of impressive size spread over the meadow, and from the highest pole a green banner with a shatra bird emblem blew in the wind. At Mara’s signal the steersman changed course for the bank, and by the time the boat reached the shallows a thousand Acoma soldiers waited to greet their mistress. Mara marvelled at their number, and her throat tightened with emotion. Scarcely ten years before, when she had assumed the mantle of Ruling Lady, there had been but thirty-seven left to wear the Acoma green….
Three Strike Leaders greeted her litter and bowed as Kevin assisted her out onto firm soil. ‘Welcome, Lady Mara!’
The warriors cheered as one to see their mistress again. The three officers formed ranks and escorted her through the troops to the shady awning of the command tent.
There Keyoke waited, standing tall upon his crutch. He managed a formal bow and said, ‘Mistress, our hearts are joyous at the sight of you.’
Fighting a sudden rush of tears, Mara answered, ‘And my heart sings for the sight of you, dear companion.’
Keyoke bowed at the kindness, and moved aside so she might enter and settle in comfort on the pillows piled upon the thick carpets. Kevin sank to his knees beside her. He kneaded her back with the hand that had sustained no injury, and under his touch he felt her tension dissolve into quiet contentment.
Still at his post by the entrance, Keyoke saw the calm that settled over his mistress’s face. As he had in the past for Lord Sezu, he faced the outer world, where Lujan approached with Arakasi, Strike Leader Kenji, and the few hale survivors from the night of the bloody swords. A secret smile twitched the old retainer’s lips as he held up a hand in restraint.
‘Force Commander,’ said the former holder of that office, ‘if I may presume. There are times when it is best to let matters wait. Return to your mistress in the morning.’
Lujan bowed to Keyoke’s experience and called to the others to share a round of hwaet beer.
Inside the cool tent, Kevin glanced questioningly at the old man, who nodded his head in approval, then slipped the ties on the door curtains and let them slap gently closed. Outside the door now, Keyoke faced the sunlight. His craggy features remained impassive, but his eyes held a clear light of pride for the lover of the woman he counted the daughter of his heart.
Arakasi’s messenger had made very plain what the Acoma owed to Kevin’s courage with a sword. Keyoke’s grim face softened a fraction as he considered the stump that had been his right leg. Gods, but he was getting soft in his dotage. Never had he thought to see the day when he would be grateful for the impertinence of that redheaded barbarian slave.
Evening shadows dimmed the great hall of the Minwanabi in the hour Lord Tasaio returned. Still clad in the armour he had worn on his trip upriver, his only concession to formality the silk officer’s cloak he had tossed over his shoulders, he strode through the wide main doorway. The chamber was filled. Every member of the household stood arrayed to meet him, and behind them, every second cousin and vassal that had serviced the years of warfare and conflict. Tasaio strode between their still ranks as though he were totally alone. Only when he reached the dais did he stop, turn, and acknowledge the presence of others.
Incomo stepped forward to greet him. ‘The hearts of the Minwanabi are filled at our Lord’s return.’
Tasaio returned a curt nod. He handed his battle helm to a servant, who bowed and retreated hastily. Never a man to waste words on banalities, the Lord of the Minwanabi turned a flat gaze upon his adviser. ‘Are the priests ready?’
Incomo bowed. ‘As you requested, my Lord.’
New black-and-orange cushions adorned the high dais, along with a rug sewn of sarcat pelts and a table fashioned of intricately etched harulth bones.
Tasaio gave the change in furnishings what seemed a passing glance; yet no detail escaped him. Satisfied that nothing left over from Desio’s rule remained, he sat and gave no other sign beyond laying the bared steel blade of the Minwanabi ancestral sword across his knees.
There followed a pause, in which Incomo belatedly realized that he was expected to act without further sign from the master. Where Desio had insisted on control over even the tiniest action, Tasaio expected to be served. The Minwanabi First Adviser waved for the ceremony to commence.
A pair of priests approached the dais, one wearing the red paint and death mask of Turakamu and the other clad in the full-sleeved white robe of Juran the Just. Each intoned a blessing from the god they served. There followed no offerings, and no grand ceremony in the manner that Desio had orchestrated. The priest of Juran lit a candle, for constancy, and left it burning in a stand woven of the reeds that symbolized the frailties of mortal man before his god. The priest of the Death God did not dance or blow whistles. Neither did he ask his deity to show favour. Instead, he trod up the stairs of the dais and reminded in cold words that a promise of sacrifice remained unfulfilled.
‘A vow sworn upon the blood of House Minwanabi,’ the priest reminded. ‘The family of the Acoma must die in the name of Turakamu, with Minwanabi lives as surety. Who would accept the lord’s mantle must also complete this charge.’
Tasaio said thinly, ‘I acknowledge our debt to the Red God. My hand on this sword confirms it.’
The red priest traced a sigil in the air. ‘Turakamu smile upon your endeavour … or seal your death and that of your heirs should you fail.’ Bones clacked and rattled as the priest spun around and left the dais; while the draught of his passage guttered the candle of the Just God.
The new Lord of the Minwanabi sat silently, without expression, as first one and then another family member or retainer came forward to bow and pledge loyalty. When the last vassal had affirmed fealty, he arose and called to the Strike Leader posted by the side door, ‘Send in my concubines.’
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 103
