The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘She has not gone mad,’ Lady Isashani answered, her fine hand closing over Mara’s in comfort. ‘Sleep and quiet will restore her, and time will heal her grief. You must be patient.’ Then, back to the hardcore immediacy of politics, she added, ‘I have set my two advisers to waylay the Omechan and the Inrodaka. My honor guard, under Hoppara, will find ways to interpose themselves where they will most hamper other troublemongers.’

  Two fewer enemies to concern them; Hokanu tossed back a harried nod. Mara had staunch friends against the vicious factions who sought to pull her down. She was beloved by many in these nations. It tore his heart not to be able to stay at her side when she was in such a terrible state. He forced his gaze away from the small cortege that formed to convey his distraught Lady to the comfort of the estate house. To let his heart rule him at this time was fool’s play. He must harden himself, as if he stood on the brink of deadly combat. There were enemies in plenty who had attended Ayaki’s last rites precisely to grab advantage from an opportunity like this. Mara’s insult to Jiro was by now past forgiveness. Bloodshed would result – that was a foregone conclusion – but only a fool would initiate an assault in the heart of Mara’s estate, with her army gathered to pay honor to Ayaki. Once beyond the borders of the Acoma lands, Mara’s enemies would start their mischief.

  Hokanu moved now in an attempt to stave off immediate war. The Acoma stood to be ruined if he misstepped; not only that, but the warriors and resources of the Shinzawai might be sucked into gainless strife also. All that had been won in the past three years to secure centralised rule for the Emperor might be thrown away at a stroke.

  Council must be called, to see what could be done to stave off more widespread disaster. Those Lords who held allegiance to neither Mara nor Jiro would have to be wooed, cajoled, or threatened, so that those openly opposed to her would think twice before challenging the Good Servant.

  ‘Lujan,’ Hokanu called over the rising tumult to the Acoma Force Commander, ‘arm the garrison, and call up the most level-headed of your officers. No matter what the provocation, at all costs set your patrols to keep the peace.’

  The high green plumes of the officer’s helm bobbed acknowledgment over the chaos. Hokanu spared a moment for thanks to the gods that Mara had chosen her staff for intelligence and sense. Cool heads were their only hope of extricating House Acoma from devastation.

  Saddened by this turn of affairs, Hokanu directed the honor guard to march back to the estate house. Had Mara been less herself, and more the pliant wife that so many Empire women became as a result of their traditional upbringing, she would never have been strong enough to have attended a full state funeral for a son cut down by assassins. As Ruling Lady, and Servant of the Empire, she was too much in the public eye, denied even the human frailties that any lesser mother might be forgiven.

  Caught up in the heated core of intrigues, Lady Mara was forced into a role that made her a target.

  A frantic hour later, Mara lay on her sleeping mat, stupefied by potions administered by the priest of Hantukama, who had appeared as if by magic to offer his skills. Isashani had the household well in hand, and the short hadonra, Jican, was as busy as three men, quelling wild rumors among the servants.

  Hokanu found himself alone to deal with the decisions that must be made in behalf of House Acoma. He listened to the reports of the Acoma retainers. He took notes for Mara to review, when she was restored and capable. He marked which guests stood by her, and which were outspoken against her. Most had the dignity to stay silent, or else they were too shocked to frame any hostile response. All had expected to spend the day in quiet contemplation, then to be hosted by the Servant of the Empire at a formal evening meal. Instead, they were already returning home, appalled by an unforgivable act authored by a woman who held the highest office in the land, short of the Emperor’s throne. More than one delegate of great houses had stopped by, ostensibly to pay their respects, but except for the Lord of the Keda, Hokanu had murmured empty thanks to men eager to catch any hint that House Acoma stood weakened. Lord Hoppara and the Lords of Clan Hadama were doing a fine job of moving through the crowds of departing guests, toning down the damage of Mara’s act against the Anasati by whatever expedient they could find. Many who were all too ready to be outraged by the breach of protocol became more inclined to overlook a grieving mother’s outburst after one of the Hadama Lords or Lord Hoppara had finished speaking to them.

  Another noble frustrated in his attempts to reach the inner apartments had been the Lord of the Anasati. Jiro had stiffly insisted that the insult to his person was irreparable. A pack of supporters had clustered at his heels as he was turned away from Mara’s door. They had found a common rallying point, and even those who had counted Mara a friend would be hard pressed to ignore a personal attack; for an enemy, it was impossible. In Tsurani culture, forgiveness was simply a less shameful form of weakness than capitulation. All in the course of seconds, the Lady had changed political opponents into allies of deadly enemies.

  Jiro had not sued for public apology; indeed, he had surrounded himself with Lords whose disgruntlement with Ichindar’s reformed powers of rule was most vociferous. Saric and Incomo shared the conclusion that the Anasati Lord was deliberately discouraging conciliatory overtures, choosing to place blame for the scandal squarely upon the Acoma. Jiro’s loud complaints reached any who hovered within earshot: that he had come to his nephew’s funeral under what was understood as a traditional truce by all who attended, and had endured physical attack, humiliation at the hands of his host, and public accusation. As much as any ruler understood or sympathised with the source of Mara’s irrational act, none could deny that deadly insult had been given, with no atonement offered. Any attempt to deflect the accusation by pointing out Mara’s present inability to offer a rational apology was ignored by the Anasati.

  The hall of the Acoma had grown stifling, its screens drawn closed against the prying eyes of the curious, its doors guarded by the scarred veterans of past wars. These men did not wear the brightly lacquered ceremonial armor but field trappings well tested by previous engagements. Sitting upon a lower, less formal dais that was deserted in Mara’s absence, Hokanu quietly requested opinions on the day’s events.

  That the closest, most loyal Acoma officers chose to respond to a consort who was not their sworn house Lord showed their immeasurable regard for Hokanu’s judgment. If the honor of these men’s vows was not his to command, they awarded him their absolute trust to act as needed in their mistress’s behalf. Touched as he was by their devotion, he was also disturbed, for it signified how deeply they understood Mara’s peril. Hokanu prayed that he was up to the task.

  He listened in grave stillness as Force Leader Irrilandi and Keyoke, Adviser for War, reviewed the strength of the garrison, even as Force Commander Lujan readied the Acoma forces for battle. As if in emphasis, old Keyoke thumped his crutch against the stump of his lost leg. ‘Even if Jiro knows he will be defeated, he has no choice: honor requires he answer public insult with bloodshed. I doubt he will settle for a contest of champions. Worse, if Mara’s cries of accusation were heard by any beyond those close by, her implication that Jiro hired the Hamoi Tong to kill Ayaki could be taken as an insult to the Ionani that can only end in a Call to Clan.’

  Absolute stillness followed this statement, making the footfalls of rushing servants echo through the hall. Several of those at the table turned to listen to the calls of house officers, gathering their masters’ families into personal litters for a quick departure, and a few looked at one another and shared a common understanding: a Clan War would rip the Empire asunder.

  Into the face of such grim musing, Saric ventured, ‘But who could take such a concept seriously? No tong dares reveal their employers, and what evidence we found to link the Anasati to the attack is hardly compelling, given the Hamoi Brotherhood’s clandestine practices. I’m more inclined to suspect it’s an intentional false trail.’

  Incomo nodded, wagging a c
rooked finger. ‘The evidence of Jiro’s hand in Ayaki’s death is too neat. No tong survives to win itself wealthy clients by being this imprudent. And the Hamoi is the most powerful tong because its secrets have never been compromised.’ He scanned the faces around the table. ‘After – what? five attempts upon Mara – they suddenly allow one of their own to be caught with proof of Anasati participation? Unlikely. Certainly questionable. Hardly convincing.’

  Hokanu regarded the advisers with a flash in his eyes as dire as light on barbarian steel. ‘We need Arakasi back.’ The gifts of the Acoma Spy Master were many, and his ability to read through the snarl of politics and individual greed of the Nations’ myriad Ruling Lords at times approached the uncanny. ‘We need him to pursue this evidence that supports Jiro’s guilt, for the boy’s true murderer lies behind it.’ Hokanu sighed. ‘Meantime, speculation is leading us nowhere. With Tasaio of the Minwanabi gone, who dares seek the death of the Servant of the Empire?’

  Saric scratched his chin in the gloom. Not without sympathy, he said, ‘Master, you are blinded by love for your wife. The common folk of the Nations may regard her as a talisman, but her exalted station invites jealousy from other hearts. Many would see the Good Servant on her way to Turakamu’s halls, simply because of her breaks with tradition, and her climb to a rank unmatched by any previous Warlord. Also there are many who see their House status lessened, and their ambitions curtailed, because she is favored by Ichindar. They would seek Mara’s dishonor … if they dared.’

  Hokanu looked impatient. ‘Then who would dare?’

  ‘Of us all, Arakasi might know.’ Glancing at Incomo, Saric tactfully phrased the question that played upon his restless mind. ‘Is there any reason to think that your former master might be reaching from the land of the dead to strike a blow in vengeance?’

  As Keyoke’s eyes hardened at this possibility, the former First Adviser to the Lord of the Minwanabi, now Second Adviser to the Lady of the Acoma, cleared his throat. He unflinchingly met the distrust that focused on him. ‘If so, I was no part of such a plot. But Tasaio was a secretive man, and dangerous. Many times he was wont to make arrangements outside my knowledge. I was often dismissed when most Lords would have commanded my attendance. The Obajan of the Hamoi Tong was seen to pay a personal visit to Tasaio. My impression at the time was that the event involved unanswered questions over the murder of Acoma spies then in Minwanabi service.’ Incomo’s long face showed unguarded distaste as he concluded, ‘Threats were exchanged, and a bargain struck. But no man alive overheard the words that passed between the Obajan and Tasaio. I can only relate that never in life did I observe the Lord of the Minwanabi so balked in his plans that he lost himself to a display of wild anger. Tasaio was many things, but he was seldom without control.’

  To this, Saric added speculative observation. ‘If the former First Adviser of the Minwanabi cannot know for certain that Tasaio left orders for vengeance should he fall, I offer that we waste ourselves in guesswork. More to the point, Tasaio was not a man who ever for a moment considered defeat – as tactician he was unmatched. Given that he believed until the end that he was free to crush our Lady in open war, why should we assume that he took the coward’s path and paid death price for Mara when he gave no credence to the chance she might survive him? We should more nearly be examining the ranks of Jiro’s enemies. Mara is one of the few Rulers in the Nations with strength enough to engage him without stalemate; with Imperial support behind her, discord between Acoma and Anasati is the more likely to lead to setbacks for Lord Jiro.’

  ‘And yet the Anasati Lord seems eager enough to take what provocation fate and our misfortune have offered,’ Hokanu broke in. ‘He does not shrink from conflict. That does little to excuse him from culpability in the matter of Ayaki’s murder. Until my wife is able, I will presume to make this decision. Order the garrison to make ready to march. There must be war, and we dare not be caught unprepared.’

  Keyoke silently inclined his head. He would not accord the situation the formality of spoken word, since this he could only do before his Lady. Yet his acquiescence in the matter showed unswerving support. Saric, who was younger and less bound to the old traditions, inclined his head in a gesture very close to the bow an adviser would offer his sworn Lord. ‘I shall make formal declaration of war upon the Anasati. When Jiro responds in kind, we shall march.’

  Keyoke glanced at Irrilandi, who nodded to indicate his own endorsement of what would soon occur. Most Tsurani bloodshed was committed surreptitiously, with ambush and raid, and without public acknowledgment of responsibility. But formal battle between houses was a time honored, ceremonial event. Two armies would meet upon a field at an agreed-upon time, and one would leave victorious. No quarter was asked or given, save in rare circumstances, and again by formal rules of conduct. History held record of battles that had raged for days; it was not uncommon for both houses to be destroyed in the process.

  Then Hokanu sought one further step. ‘I ask that we notify Clan Hadama.’

  Saric raised his eyebrows, concerned deeply, but also intrigued by the subtleties of the suggestion. ‘You provoke an Anasati Call to Clan?’

  Hokanu sighed, ‘I have an intuitive feeling –’

  But Keyoke broke in with a rare interruption that supported Hokanu’s hunch. ‘Jiro is no warrior. He has Omelo for Force Commander, and though a good enough field general in his own right, he does not excel at large scale engagements. A Call to Clan is the best hope Jiro has to keep his House and army intact. We do not provoke what is likely a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘More,’ Incomo added. ‘Lord Jiro is a scholar at heart. He sneers at the coarseness of armed conflict. He wishes reason to declare against Mara, and has nurtured a hatred of her that extends back into his youth. But he prefers hidden attacks, and cleverness. He is a master of shah. Remember that. He will seek to ruin by subterfuge, not raw force. If we do call a Clan War first, then the possibility exists that Clan Ionani will not permit an Anasati interest to drag them to destruction. We are more than Jiro’s match in open combat. If his Clan members are behind his obsessive desires enough to escalate by accepting his slight of honor for their own, Clan Hadama will answer.’

  Hokanu weighed this without much hope or enthusiasm. Whether Clan Ionani moved against them or not Lord Jiro had managed to set himself at the spearhead of other factions that had cause to undermine Mara’s strength. That his was not the only mind to perceive past this personal spat to deeper, more lasting discord had been evident by the number of Ruling Lords who turned out for Ayaki’s funeral. The High Council might be abolished, but its tradition of contention continued in secret, ferocious intensity, whenever excuse existed for the Empire’s nobles to gather. That the Black Robes had sent a contingent of five to the rites showed that their trend of intervention into the arena of intrigue was far from ended since Ichindar’s ascension to centralised power.

  At last, Hokanu concluded, ‘We may have strength and allies enough to crush the Anasati, but at what cost? In the end, it may not change things. We can only hope that a swift, bloody clash on the battlefield will contain the damage, and split up the traditionalists before they can ally and organise into a united political party.’

  ‘Master Hokanu,’ Saric interjected at the naked look of sorrow that appeared on the Acoma consort’s face, ‘the course you have chosen is the best we have available. Rest assured that your Lady could do no better, were she capable of hearing our counsel. Now go, attend to her, for she needs you at her side. I will instruct the scribes to prepare documents and arrange for messengers to convey them to Lord Jiro’s estates.’

  Looking haunted despite the relief at this unstinting statement of support, Hokanu left the hall. His stride was a warrior’s, purposeful and quick; his hands were a worried husband’s, balled into helpless fists.

  Saric remained, as the other Acoma officers broke the circle and departed from the hall. Left alone in the breezeless shadows, he slapped his fist into a hand grown
uncalloused since his promotion from a warrior’s ranks. He ached for those friends he had left in the barracks, and for the woman he had been called to serve, who had wholly won his support. If the Acoma acted quickly enough to end this dispute, the gods would be granting a miracle. Too many disgruntled Lords remained with too few responsibilities since the disbanding of the High Council. Peace left them too much space for mischief. The old political parties had broken up, their reason for existence canceled by Ichindar’s new rule.

  The Empire was quiet, but far from settled; the climate of unrest that had three years been held in abeyance was ripe for renewed civil war.

  Saric loved his Ruling Lady and appreciated her brilliance in changing the only society he had ever known, but he regretted the disbanding of the Warlord’s office and the power of the High Council, for at least then events could be interpreted according to centuries of precedents set by the forms of the Great Game. Now, while the old ways were still followed by the houses of the Empire, the rules were forced into change.

  Speculation was becoming too uncertain, Saric decided with a grimace of disgust. He left the deserted hall, heading for those quarters he had chosen when Mara had come to occupy the former Minwanabi estate. En route to his suite of rooms, he sent Mara’s runner to fetch a scribe to attend him. When the man arrived with his satchel of ink and pens, the Acoma First Adviser’s instructions were clipped and short: ‘Prepare notice for our factors and agents. If Arakasi makes his presence known anywhere in the Nations, inform him he is to return home at once.’ The scribe sat upon the floor without comment, but he looked troubled as he placed a wooden lapboard upon his knee. Quickly putting pen to parchment, he started to compose the first document.