The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘My Lady, an assassin was sent.’ The Patrol Leader tersely bowed. Trained by Keyoke to be concise, he delivered the news like a battle report. ‘Ayaki suffered a minor cut, but is otherwise unharmed. Two nurses died, and Nacoya, First Adviser, was killed in the child’s defence. The estate grounds have been searched, with no sign of other enemies found. The assassin apparently stole in alone. Keyoke reinforced all border patrols and sent us to bolster your escort.’

  But Mara heard none of the details, past knowledge that Ayaki had suffered hurt and that Nacoya, who had been a mother to her since childhood, was dead. Her knees felt weak, and her mind was shocked past thinking. She did not feel the arm that Lujan slipped under her elbow to steady her. She heard but did not comprehend the words her Force Commander said to the Patrol Leader, dispatching a runner to fetch a replacement litter.

  Nacoya was dead, and Ayaki injured. She needed Kevin’s arms around her, and the comfort of his love through this nightmare; but he lay bandaged in a litter, unconscious from a healing draught.

  Mara stumbled forward. The night felt bitterly desolate. Trouble seemed to roost unseen in the dark, and the road through her own prayer gate seemed menacing with unnamed danger.

  ‘I must go home,’ she said blankly.

  ‘Lady, we shall take you there with all haste.’ Lujan snapped orders to his company, and the patrol integrated with the guard already surrounding the Lady and her wounded and dead. Then, without awaiting the runner’s return with the litter, the warriors marched for the estate house.

  Mara hurried in a numb haze of disbelief. Nacoya was dead; that fact seemed incomprehensible. The Lady felt she ought to be crying. Instead, she could not see past placing one stumbling foot in front of the other. She was aware of the Patrol Leader giving the details of the assassin’s raid to Lujan, but inside her head she could hear only Nacoya’s voice, scolding and scolding her for folly, vanity, and headstrong actions.

  Ayaki had been injured.

  Her heart cried out in outrage, anger, and grief, that one so little should ever be threatened by the machinations of the Great Game. She thought blasphemies: Kevin was right; deaths for political gains were a senseless, cruel waste. Her sense of family honour warred outright with her pain. How narrowly Tasaio had missed ending the Acoma line in the passage of a single day!

  Keyoke’s wisdom, Nacoya’s courage, a slave’s disregard of propriety: those had been all that stood between her house and total destruction. Almost, Minwanabi had fulfilled his blood oath to Turakamu. Chills chased over Mara’s flesh. She remembered the rain of arrows that had hissed over her head, even as Kevin’s weight had knocked her down, out of the way. She hurried faster, and did not protest when the litter at last arrived and Lujan caught her up in his arms and bundled her inside without pause to break his stride.

  These bearer slaves were fresh. Mara signalled Lujan to appoint an honour guard and let the other soldiers escorting the wounded and dead proceed more slowly. Distraught beyond restraint, she screamed for the slaves to sprint the last quarter mile to the lighted hall of the estate house.

  Keyoke met her there, grim and wearing armour from the waist up. He had donned his old helm, shorn of plumes, and his sword was strapped to his side, prepared for the worst if word came back that his mistress had been killed in the forest.

  Mara stumbled out of her litter before Lujan could catch her hand. She flung herself into the arms of the old warrior, and with her cheek against his hard breastplate, she fought to hold back tears.

  Keyoke stood staunch on his crutch, and his free hand stroked her hair. ‘Mara-anni,’ he said in his deep voice, using the diminutive as a father might address a beloved daughter. ‘Nacoya died most bravely. She will be sung into the halls of Turakamu with all of the honours of a warrior and make proud the Acoma name.’

  Mara repressed a deep, shuddering sob. ‘My son,’ she gasped. ‘How is he?’

  Over her bent head, the Adviser for War and Lujan exchanged a quick look. Needing no words, the Force Commander gently took Mara’s elbow and eased her weight off Keyoke.

  ‘We shall go at once to see Ayaki,’ the older adviser said. He pointedly did not ask after her crumpled appearance, or the evidence of bloodstains on her robe. ‘Your son sleeps, attended by Jican. The cut on his neck was attended to promptly, but he lost a lot of blood. He will be well enough in time, but you should know; we could not stop his crying. He has had a terrible shock.’

  Mara froze, resisting all attempts to lead her away. ‘Kevin,’ she said frantically. ‘I want him brought to my chambers and tended there.’

  ‘Lady,’ Lujan said firmly. ‘I already presumed to give orders to that end.’ He caught her more firmly around the waist and propelled her into the corridor that led to her chambers. Someone thoughtful, probably Jican, had ordered every lamp lit, so no step she took was in shadow.

  Again the eyes of Force Commander and Adviser for War met. Keyoke knew that Mara’s party had suffered ambush; he was impatient to hear the details. Lujan nodded in wordless indication that he would relate the event, but out of Mara’s hearing. She had grief enough in her heart without being made to endure a repetition of the day’s unpleasantness.

  They reached her private apartments. The screens were opened wide and attended by a dozen armed warriors. Inside, half-lost in a sea of cushions, a small figure lay with white bandages wrapped around his neck. Someone sat with him; Mara did not look to see whom, but pulled herself out of Lujan’s hold and fell to her knees by her child. She touched him, transparently surprised by his warmth. Then, tenderly cautious of his hurts, she gathered him into her arms. She wept then, beyond all control, and her tears rinsed Ayaki’s cheek.

  Her officers averted their faces in staunch disregard of her shame, and the person sitting on the cushions tactfully rose to leave.

  Mara glanced through brimming eyes and identified Jican. ‘Stay,’ she said shakily. ‘All of you, stay. I don’t want to be here alone.’

  For a very long time the lanterns burned, while she sat and rocked her young son.

  Later in the night, after Kevin had been placed on a mat by Ayaki’s side, Mara ordered the lights put out. She dismissed Keyoke, Jican, and Lujan to their long-deserved rest, and, guarded by a relief watch of warriors at every entrance to the house, she sat in silent vigil over her loved ones. She thought, and saw too clearly where selfishness had steered her near to ruin. Her arrogant assumption of the Clan Warchief’s seat now seemed the act of an idiot.

  She did not undress for bed, though the healer who came periodically to check on his two charges begged her to take a draught to bring rest. Her eyes stung unpleasantly from crying, and she did not wish the oblivion of sleep. Guilt weighed upon her heart, and too many thoughts upon her mind. At dawn she gathered her courage, rose stiffly from her cushions, and left her room and her loved ones. Alone, watched only by her guarding soldiers, she moved like a waif through darkened corridors to the nursery, where the body of the woman who had raised her had been laid on a bier of honour.

  Nacoya’s bloody robes had been changed for rich silks bordered by Acoma green. Her wrinkled old hands lay at peace by her sides, sheathed in soft leather gloves to hide the cruel cuts from the assassin’s cord, and the knife that had slain her rested on her breast, as badge of homage to Turakamu that she had died a warrior’s death. Her face, nested in silver-white hair, seemed more peaceful than it ever had in sleep. Cares and arthritis and hairpins that never stayed straight could not trouble her now. Her loyal years of service were over.

  Mara felt fresh tears spring under her swollen eyelids. ‘Mother of my heart,’ she murmured. She sank to the cushions beside the dead woman and gathered up one cold hand. She fought and steadied her voice. ‘Nacoya, know your name shall be honoured with the ancestors of the Acoma, and your ashes shall be spread inside the walls of the sacred glade, within the garden of the natami. Know the blood you spilled today was Acoma blood, and that you are as family and kin.’ Here Mara paused, as
her breath caught. She raised her face in the grey light coming through the screens and looked out into the mist that clothed the lands of her people.

  ‘Mother of my heart,’ she resumed, shamefully unsteady, ‘I did not listen to you. I was selfish, and arrogant, and careless, and the gods took your life for my folly. But hear me; I can still learn. Your wisdom lives yet in my heart, and on the morrow when your ashes are delivered to the gods, I will swear this promise: I will send the barbarian Kevin away, and write a betrothal contract to Shinzawai asking for marriage with Hokanu. These things I will do before the season turns, wise one. And to my sorrow, to the end of my days, I will regret that I chose not to heed while you were alive at my side.’

  Mara gently laid the withered hand back at the dead woman’s side. ‘Not enough did I tell you this, Nacoya: I loved you well, mother of my heart,’ she ended, ‘and I thank you for the life of my son.’

  • Chapter Twenty-Four •

  Breakthrough

  The drums stilled.

  Silence fell over the grounds of the Acoma estate for the first time since the funeral rites three days past. The priests of Turakamu summoned for the occasion packed their clay masks and departed in single-file procession. Only the red bunting on the front door posts remained as a visible reminder of the recently departed; but to Mara the estate house would never again seem the secure haven she recalled from her childhood.

  She was not alone in her disquiet. Ayaki cried himself to sleep at nights; Kevin rested beside him, a strange ghostly figure in white bandages, who cheered him when he could with stories, called servants to light lanterns when the boy lay trembling in the dark, and calmed him when he woke up distraught from nightmares. Mara sat often at the boy’s bedside, quiet, or speaking desultorily with Kevin. She tried to ignore the twelve warriors who stood guard at each window and door. Now she could not pass even the shadows beneath the shrubs in her gardens without looking sideways for assassins.

  After an exhaustive search, Lujan’s trackers had discovered the dead assassin’s trail onto her estate; the killer had taken time to complete his infiltration, here spending a night in a tree, and there leaving a depression under a hedge where he had lain for hours, waiting motionless for a break between patrols or a servant to pass. Plainly Tasaio of the Minwanabi had reversed his tactics since the Night of the Bloody Swords. Where numbers and sheer force had failed before, his most recent attempt had been furtive, involving just a single man. Lujan did not have soldiers enough to beat every bush and vine and fence row daily to search for lurking intruders. The Acoma sentries had not been the least bit lax; simply, the estate lands were too wide and too open to be maintained in flawless security.

  Nacoya and a patrol of brave warriors were ashes, but aching failure lingered in Mara’s mind. A week passed before she steadied enough to ask for Arakasi.

  The hour was late evening, and Mara sat in her study beside a nearly untouched supper tray. Her request for the Spy Master’s presence had been carried by her little runner slave, who now bowed until his forehead touched the waxed floor.

  ‘Lady,’ he said, still prone. ‘Your Spy Master is not here. Jican regrets to inform you that he left your lands within the hour after the attack upon your person and son. He told no one of his destination, nor did he give a date for his return.’

  Seated on her cushions under the hot lamplight, Mara stayed motionless for so long that the slave boy began to tremble.

  She stared at the painted murals commissioned by her last husband, Buntokapi, the ones that depicted bloody battle scenes in rioting brilliance. From the rapt look on Mara’s face, she appeared to be seeing them for the first time. It was most unlike the mistress not to notice her slave boy’s discomfort, for she was fond of him, and patted him often on the head when he rendered quick service.

  ‘Lady?’ he offered timorously, when minutes passed and his knees began to ache.

  Mara stirred and came back to herself. She realized the moon stood well up in the sky beyond the screen, and the wicks burned low in her oil lamps, ‘You may retire,’ she bade with a sigh.

  The boy scurried from the room in grateful haste. Mara continued as she was, while servants entered and removed the untouched dishes. But she waved away the maids who expected her to retire, and stayed toying with a dry quill pen, a blank parchment sheet spread before her. Hours passed, and she did not write. Night insects sang in the garden beyond the screens, and the relief watch changed guard at midnight.

  It simply was not conceivable that Arakasi was a traitor; and yet, in low words, members of her household suggested so. Mara twisted the pen, anguished. She had delayed any formal summons, hoping the man would present himself and prove beyond any question he had no part in Tasaio’s attempt on her house. Keyoke had stayed closemouthed on the subject, and the usually outspoken Saric was reluctant to speak. Even Jican took care not to linger for a chat after his reports on estate finance. Mara tossed the quill pen aside and massaged her temples with her fingers.

  It was most painfully plain that Arakasi could be suspect.

  Were he to turn coat, her danger was multiplied. Over the years, he had been entrusted with her household’s deepest secrets. There was no aspect of her affairs that he did not know intimately. And he detested the Minwanabi as she did.

  Or did he?

  Mara sweated in torment. If his desire for revenge had been an act, what better ploy to gain her confidence than to revile the same enemy that had ruined her father and brother?

  Arakasi, who was so gifted at changing roles and guises; he was a consummate actor, easily capable of feigning passionate hatred.

  Mara closed her eyes and recalled conversations between herself and Arakasi over the years. The man couldn’t have betrayed her. Could he? She sighed, indulging herself in that simple release in the privacy of her quarters. She was certain in her heart that Arakasi couldn’t be a Minwanabi agent; the hatred for Tasaio and his family was too real, but could someone else have turned the Spy Master? Someone who could, perhaps, offer Arakasi a better position from which to conduct his war against the Minwanabi? With the price for that more secure position the Acoma’s betrayal?

  Mara’s fingers tightened until they left white marks on her flesh. If the Spy Master was the relli in her nest, everything she had done was for naught. At this moment Nacoya’s carping would have been welcome, a sign that errors could be rectified.

  But the old woman was now ashes, dust amid the dust of a thousand Acoma ancestors whose honour Mara was entrusted to keep.

  Again she tormented herself with the question: How could she have held such a deep, instinctive rapport with a man who wished her harm? How could she?

  The night held no answers.

  Mara dropped tired hands in her lap and regarded her abandoned quill pen. Though the lamps blazed brightly around her, and her best guards stood vigilant at her door, she felt cornered. With a hand that shook distressingly, she reached out and took up pen and parchment. She scraped dried ink from the nib, dipped it in the waiting ink jar, and wrote in formal style in the centre of the top of the page the name of Kamatsu of the Shinzawai.

  An extended interval passed before she could force herself to continue. Neither could she simplify her pain by sending a servant to fetch her scribe. Her promise to Nacoya was sacred. In her own hand, she completed the ritual phrases of the proposal for marriage, asking Kamatsu’s honoured son, Hokanu of the Shinzawai, to reconsider after her former refusal, and take her hand as consort of the Lady of the Acoma.

  Tears welled in Mara’s eyes as she reached the final line, added her signature, and affixed her family chop. She folded and sealed the document quickly, clapped for a servant, and gave her instructions with her throat tight with emotion.

  ‘Have this paper delivered at once to the marriage brokers in Sulan-Qu. They are to present it with all speed to Kamatsu of the Shinzawai.’

  The servant accepted the paper and bowed before his mistress. ‘Lady Mara, your will shall be c
arried out at first light.’

  Mara’s brows gathered instantly into a frown. ‘I said, at once! Find a messenger and send the document with all speed!’

  The servant prostrated himself on the floor. ‘Your will, Lady.’

  She waved him impatiently away. If she noted his quick and puzzled glance at the darkness beyond the screen, she did not call him back in allowance for the unreasonable hour. If she delayed the proposal to Kamatsu until morning, she knew well she would not be able to send the document on at all. Better the messenger stand a few hours in the dark, waiting for the broker to arise, than risk another opportunity to change her mind and break her vow.

  The chamber suddenly seemed too stifling, and the scent of the akasi cloying. Mara shoved her writing table aside. Filled with a desperate need to see Kevin, she stumbled to her feet and hurried down the lit corridors, past rows of vigilant guards, to the nursery wing.

  At the entrance, half-blind in the sudden dark, Mara hesitated. She blinked back a fresh flood of tears and waited for her eyes to adjust; the pungent healer’s herbs and poultice scents lay heavily upon the air. Finally, she crossed the threshold.

  Moonlight turned the closed screen copper and carved the rows of watchful warriors outside into dark silhouettes. In no way comforted by their vigilance, Mara made her way to the mat where Kevin lay, his bandages white smears in the gloom, and his torso twisted in the sheets as though his rest had been troubled. She paused, looked to Ayaki, and reassured herself that the boy was more settled, asleep with his mouth open, his hands half-curled on his pillow. The scratch on his neck was healing more quickly than Kevin’s hurts, which had been treated less promptly in the field. But the assassin had left more lasting marks on the little boy’s mind. Relieved he did not suffer another nightmare, Mara moved past, careful not to disturb him. She dropped to her knees by Kevin’s mat and tugged to disentangle his limp weight from the constricting snarl of the bedclothes.