An hour later, he was on his knees in the offices of the moneylenders’ guild, a scrub brush and bucket in hand. Afternoon trade had resumed, and if he spent overlong cleansing the tiles around the desk of the clerk by the aisle, no one commented. Merchants tended to kick him out of their path as they came and went, particularly if repayment of their loans was behind schedule, or if their need for credit had resulted from misfortune: a caravan load lost to bandits or a silk shipment spoiled by damp weather.
Arguments tended to flare in the heat of afternoon, and no one noticed that the servant muttered under his breath as he scrubbed the tiles.
Except the clerk who, as he copied rows of figures, held his head tilted to one side.
‘… hafta track in dog dung,’ Arakasi grumbled. ‘Should be a law against letting the pets of the ladies defecate in the streets.’ He sniffed, cursed his aching back, and in exactly the same singsong tone added, ‘Offends my nose, it does, and did you notice whether the red boy took out any notes that might have been for blood money? Crap in the wash water again, and I’m tired of refilling my bucket.’
The clerk scrubbed sweat from his brow, picked a slate off a corner of his desk, and made a notation. Then he shuffled it into another stack, smeared with erasures and chalk dust, and lashed out with a foot, catching the floor scrubber a hard blow in the ribs. ‘Here, you. Clean these.’
Arakasi tugged his forelock and pressed his nose to the wet tiles. ‘Your will, sir, master, your will.’ He accepted the pile of slates, shuffled off to fetch a rag, and began the appointed task. His muttering continued, the inflection even as ever as he came to the slate with the blurred notation. At the sight of the figures there, with dates noted in code to one side, he could barely keep his wipe rag steady. Three flicks of his wrist, and the slate was empty, the figures and dates committed to memory. His appearance remained innocuously bland, but his heartbeat doubled.
For ‘red boy’ was his code name for Anasati, and the clerk, a carefully placed agent. The numbers exchanged had revealed large sums in metal, taken out by the Anasati First Adviser. They had not been for trade purposes; those the hadonra would have signed for, and most would have been in notes to merchants that handled regular transactions. One of the sums had been borrowed just before the time of Arakasi’s near-disastrous exposure in the silk warehouse. Could the events have been connected? And the other two, recently dated, might have been payments to the Hamoi Tong, blood money for specified assassinations.
Arakasi polished the last slate and shuffled back to the clerk’s desk. He resumed mopping the floor, and roundly cursed when the clerk tossed a bit of thyza paper at the waste bin and missed. The crumpled bit of scrap landed on Arakasi’s cleaned tiles. He retrieved it, bowed obsequiously, and deposited it within the waste barrel. But a second scrap of paper twisted inside remained in his palm, and vanished into a fold of his loincloth.
He endured the cuffs and blows of the merchants as he scrubbed his way across the aisle, until he reached haven in a far corner.
Just before closing time, when voices were loudest and tempers most frayed, an ostentatiously dressed merchant stopped by the desk of the clerk who was Arakasi’s agent. He flicked a swift glance about the shop, saw that all on the floor were occupied, and made an inquiry.
The apparently flustered clerk dropped his chalk. Arakasi dipped his scrub brush into his bucket and started on a new section of floor, but his bent head was angled so that he caught a clear view of the exchange at the clerk’s desk under his arm.
The two men spoke for a few minutes. Shell counters changed hands, invisibly to anyone who happened to be standing, but not to a servant bent down on the floor. The merchant glanced to left and right, his eyes bright with exhilaration.
Arakasi, muttering, repressed a frown. Where have I seen that man before? he thought. Where? And in time the answer came to him, who was adept at separating details from circumstance, no matter how incongruous they might have seemed.
He knew, with a thrill of excitement, that the man dressed as the gaudy merchant was none other than Chumaka, the Anasati First Adviser.
‘Chochocan’s favor,’ he grumbled. ‘Damned floor goes on forever.’ He dragged his bucket to one side, half blocking the doorway that led to the privy. A moment later, he was rewarded by another blow in the ribs, as the clerk who hastened to nature’s call tripped over him.
‘Damn you for a wretch!’ He bent to deliver another punitive blow, and, between curses, said breathlessly, ‘The merchant wanted to know if anyone had made inquiry into the Anasati accounts. I told him several shifty and questionable men had offered me bribes to that effect, just to make him worry.’
Arakasi choked back a grin, and pressed his face to the floor in a slave’s bow of apology. ‘Sorry, sir, master, I’m sorry. That’s damned interesting news, and forgive me for my clumsiness, I beg you.’
‘You aren’t forgiven!’ shouted the clerk. ‘Get out on the street and scrub the stoop! And make sure no street brats have made water on the pillars on the alley side, while you’re at it.’
Arakasi bowed and scraped, and backed hastily out the door. But though he detailed his sharpest squad of street children to seek out the merchant’s trail, no trace of Chumaka could be found.
By sundown, Mara’s Spy Master was forced to concede the man’s cleverness. It also left him worried. He felt cold to discover a man who could match his skills at subterfuge in the camp of an enemy. For not only was Jiro sworn to destroy Mara, he was the most dangerous member of the traditionalist faction that sought to bring down the Emperor. Others might be more public in their opposition, but Arakasi had no doubt that Jiro sought advantage by letting others voice his desires. What progress had been made to change a governance fallen to stagnation and decay remained threatened. As evening fell, Arakasi hastened through darkening streets toward the House of Seven Stars. He must go there and shift identity, then return to his mistress straight away. For although he had run into a dead end in his lead to root out the Hamoi Tong, he had other disquieting news to report, concerning political affairs within the Empire. Still more upsetting was his chance discovery that Chumaka, First Adviser to Jiro of the Anasati, had somehow discovered a need to guard his tracks.
Which of his agents, Arakasi wondered in anxiety, had been found out?
• Chapter Ten •
Interval
Mara fretted.
The debilitating effects of her poisoning passed too slowly for her liking. Two months since the event, and still she was too weak to travel. She regarded the afternoon sunlight that striped the carpet in her study, and frowned. She ought to be in the Holy City, attending the semiannual convocation of the Emperor’s advisers. Frasai of the Tonmargu, the Imperial Overlord, had lost his health; some whispered in corners that he was becoming senile. The rumors were baseless, but even in his vigorous years as Clan Warchief, the Lord of the Tonmargu had ruled with an uncertain hand, trying to please divergent factions. Mara worried. With Frasai’s authority crumbling, and the Imperial Chancellor, Hokanu’s father, Kamatsu, hampered on all sides by traditionalist attacks that threatened not only his own prosperity, but that of his allies and supporters, this autumn’s meeting could easily become a battleground.
The bloodier days when the Game of the Council had been played under rule of a Warlord were still too recent to be forgotten.
Mara hit her thin fist on her writing desk in an unwonted display of frustration, and arose to pace. That she was too weak to walk without the aid of a cane made her flush with annoyance. The servants who attended her needs, and even the runner boy by the doorway, turned their faces away from the emotions that played with embarrassing plainness across their Lady’s face.
But today, she was too exasperated to waste effort keeping up a proper Tsurani façade. Kevin the barbarian, had he been there, would have teased her for that. Mara felt a pang in a place she had thought hardened over with callus. ‘Damn the man,’ she muttered, and banged down her cane for e
mphasis.
A gentle voice chided from the doorway. ‘The Empire won’t fall apart, just because its favorite Servant is too unwell to go to council.’ Clad in little more than an overrobe dampened from sweat from his arms practice, Hokanu stepped in, the limp in his stride nearly gone. As Mara rounded on him in a fury, he caught her wrists. She had no strength; his fingers could circle her bones like shackles, she was so thin, and he had to take care not to bruise her. He spoke again with a firmness that of necessity he withheld from his grip. ‘My Lady, Lord Hoppara will have things well in hand. The council will not go to pieces because you’re not there.’
She looked up, her eyes snapping. After a moment, she said, ‘Stop treating me as though I were made of glass. You and I know the traditionalists will be vicious in their plotting, and not half of what happens will take place in the council chamber. Bargains will be made, terms set, and conditions agreed upon, and many who would otherwise act with caution will not, because I am not there!’
Hokanu smiled, freed one of her wrists, and straightened a fallen wisp of her hair. As he wound it back under what he guessed was the correct jade pin, he hid his pain that her dark locks had lost their shine, and her skin no longer had the luster of corcara shell. Her dancer’s litheness had gone, through her weeks in a sickbed. She still looked peaked, and not even Lujan could get her to rest through the heat of the afternoons. ‘Imperial politics aside, pretty bird, I’ve taken the liberty of assembling your maids. You have a visitor.’
‘Dear gods, state clothing?’ Mara’s fury changed course toward annoyance. ‘I’ll suffocate. Whose father has come this time, hoping to touch my robe hem to gain the luck to find auspicious husbands for his five ill-favored daughters?’
Hokanu laughed, clasped her waist, and lifted her wholesale into his arms. ‘How bitchy we are today. Did you know that Jican was approached by a merchant who offered him metal for your cast-off clothing? He wanted to sew the rags into ribbons to sell for souvenirs.’
Mara stiffened in affront. ‘Jican didn’t tell me that!’
‘He knew,’ Hokanu began, and grunted as the wraith-like woman in his arms caught him in the diaphragm with an elbow. He shifted her out of reach of a stiffening bruise gained at sword drill, and manfully continued speaking. ‘Your hadonra didn’t tell you. He knew you’d ask to have the poor man whipped off the estates, and he deemed that inappropriate hospitality, even for a rude schemer.’
As her husband stepped into the hallway, Mara said a word that certainly would have tarnished the reverent image of her held by the commoners. Then she poked her husband in the arm. ‘So who is this visitor that Jican and you have decided it’s safe for me to see?’
A grin spread across Hokanu’s handsome face. ‘You’ll want your makeup. It’s Lady Isashani of the Xacatecas.’
‘Here?’ Mara’s voice was shrill with dismay. She reached up and worriedly began to pat at her hair.
Since that was the first moment anyone had seen her have a care for her personal appearance since her miscarriage, Hokanu silently thanked the provocative beauty who waited in Mara’s best sitting room. Maybe after today the Lady of the Acoma would hear sense, and stop spending the reserves she needed for healing on frazzled nervous energy. The healing priest had judged that the antidote had rescued Mara from the very gates of the Red God’s hall, and that with rest and a calm mind, it would take three months for her bodily recovery, then another to regain her full strength. But Mara’s emotional state after the death of another baby and a near-miss on her own life had been anything but restful. Hokanu feared it would be longer than three months before his wife became her former self.
An emphatic squirm from his wife reminded Hokanu painfully that her fitness had not been the only one to suffer. If he did not sweat through a hot bath, and soon, he was going to be wretchedly stiff. She interpreted his grimace, as she was wont to do.
‘You must not be long at your bath, dear man. If Isashani’s come, there will be subtleties and intrigues about her as thick as perfume. It will take a handsome face to flatter the information out of her, and since I’m not male and a favorite of hers, you are placed on your honor as Acoma consort to attend.’
Hokanu was neither so tired from his exercise, nor so deaf to nuance, that he did not hear the underlying fear in his Lady’s voice. ‘What troubles you, Lady? Normally you would be delighted by a visit by Lady Isashani.’
Mara looked up at him, her eyes black in the thicker gloom of the hallway. ‘The Great Game,’ she murmured. ‘It turns too often toward bloodshed, and once more there are rumors of a plot against the Emperor.’
Hokanu’s face went hard. ‘I’ll be there. But after my bath, and after you women have a chance to renew your acquaintance.’ Dangerous politics might be the reason behind the Xacatecas dowager’s visit; but Hokanu was damned if he would forfeit the chance to have Mara benefit from the former Ruling Lady of the Xacatecas’ shrewd insight and wit.
Mara looked like a lost waif in the enveloping weight of her finery. She entered the sitting room with small, demure steps, not for the sake of dainty appearance, but because of weakness. The luster of her emeralds and jade outshone her eyes, and the bow she gave the tall woman who awaited her presence in purple-and-gold robes was of necessity shallow and brief. Prolonged obeisance of any form would have seen her on her knees on the floor, and stubborn pride prevented her from having a serving man along to steady her.
Lady Isashani of the Xacatecas arose from her cushions in a sweep of fine silk and perfumes. Her eyes were rich brown, and exotically slanted. Her hair had silver mixed in with its auburn, and the thyza powder she had used to burnish her distinctive cheekbones must have been mixed with sparkling bits of ground shell. The effect glittered with tiny points of light, and enhanced the milk-and-rose skin that had retained its glow of youth as if by a magician’s spell. Renowned for her beauty, feared for her shrewdness, and acknowledged as a matchless manipulator, the dowager Lady of the Xacatecas hurried forward and supported Mara’s elbow.
‘You’re obviously not hale, my dear.’ Her voice was fine-grained, mellow as the tone of a treasured old instrument handed down through generations of players. ‘And formalities are wasted between friends.’
Mara sank gratefully into deep cushions. Her own voice sounded dry as the scratch of sand as she opened with the time-honored words of greeting toward one of higher social position. ‘Welcome to my house, Lady. Are you well?’
Isashani inclined her head, a saucy smile dimpling her cheeks. ‘I thank the Good Servant for the undeserved courtesy,’ she answered, her tone one of genuine pleasure at Mara’s reversal of their ranks. While she was Mara’s senior in age and experience, she was but a former Ruling Lady and Mara was Servant of the Empire. ‘I do well enough, but you look like hwaet gruel left in the sun for the livestock. My dear, have you given up eating altogether?’ That her words were direct as a spearcast did not surprise Mara, but that bluntness had unbalanced many an opponent of House Xacatecas whose wits were left muddled by the Lady’s alluring loveliness.
Mara dropped her eyes from the dazzle of gleaming violet silk trimmed expensively with gold thread, and as quickly glanced away from the tray of sweetmeats and sliced fruits left by the servants for her guest’s refreshment. She evaded. ‘You surely didn’t come here to hear me complain of my health.’ In fact, nourishment held no savor. The poison had left her stomach nervous and delicate.
The reply from the Lady came barbed as a riposte. ‘I certainly didn’t come here to indulge you by watching you sulk.’
Mara repressed a flinch. From anyone else she must interpret such rebuke as an insult; but Isashani’s deep eyes held sympathy that stung her like a slap because it was genuine. She sighed, and emotion that had hardened since her miscarriage eased a little. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise my mood was so transparent.’
‘Sorry won’t suffice.’ Isashani reached out a perfectly groomed hand, selected a plate, and served up a portion of the fruit. ‘Ea
t, or else I’ll call your maids and have them bundle you straight off to bed.’
She would, too, Mara thought, and her perfidious maids would probably obey without pause to question that the wish of their mistress might not be in accord. Isashani handled authority like an irascible field general, and folk in her presence tended to march to her tune, and think the better of their actions afterward. Since Mara did not feel strong enough to argue, she began to nibble a slice of jomach. She, too, could be direct. ‘Why did you come?’
Isashani gave her back a look that measured; then, as if reassured that Mara’s inner fiber was not as depleted as her physical resilience, she poured herself chocha from the pot upon the snack tray. ‘Lord Jiro of the Anasati has made overtures toward my late husband’s oldest bastard son.’ Her voice was hard as rare barbarian steel, at odds with her fragile beauty.
Mara set aside her half-eaten fruit slice, unthinking. A frown marked her brow. ‘Wenaseti,’ she said, quietly questioning.
An elegant nod from her guest confirmed that this was the name of the bastard in question; Isashani returned a small smile in salute. That Mara knew the name at all was impressive, since the late Lord Chipino had sampled concubines and courtesans like fine wines. His bastards were numerous as vermin, and though all had been raised in evenhanded fairness by House Xacatecas, their temperaments and characters varied like weather. The old Lord had shared his sheets as readily for beauty as for brains, and though none of the mothers he got with child had been able to successfully challenge Isashani’s preeminent position as Lady and wife, some had been bitter in their defeat, and had taught their resentment to their offspring. The current heir, Hoppara, relied on his dowager mother’s shrewd grasp of family politics to keep his sprawling collection of siblings and bastard relations in line.
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