Arakasi agonised, as the sound of night creatures seemed to mock him. Feeling more anguish in minutes than he had known all the years of his life, the exhausted, frightened, yet exultant Spy Master hurried on, toward a future and a goal more fearful than any he put behind him.
• Chapter Fourteen •
Revelation
The fog lifted.
Arakasi walked through the river quarter of Jamar in bone numbing fatigue. Although he had shed all signs of pursuit nights past, he dared not stop for rest. The tong was behind him somewhere, following him like hounds on a game trail. They would lose him in this city, among ten thousand strangers, only to turn to their other lead – the clue that led to Kamini’s sister. He had only a matter of days before they found Kamlio.
With Mara still in residence at the Imperial Palace, he would forfeit what precious lead time he had gained. The fastest commercial litter, with two extra crews of runners, had carried him from Ontoset to Jamar in a week. He could not sleep though the jouncing ride, but his drug depleted body had fallen into a stupor for the few hours a day the bearers required to rest.
Now, six days after he had killed the Obajan, he had paid off the exhausted crew of litter bearers by the entrance to Jamar’s main market, then lost himself amid the workers who set up the merchant’s stalls and laid out the day’s wares. Jamar was the busiest trading port in the Empire and the dockside quarter formed a small community on its own, where seagoing ships met river craft. Arakasi found a beggar boy sitting before a brothel, closed at this early hour of morning. He held up a shell worth a hundred centis, more wealth than the boy would beg in a year. ‘What is the fastest way upriver?’
The boy sprang to his feet and with gestures indicated he had no voice. Arakasi motioned for the boy to show him. Darting through the early morning crowd that collected by the sausage seller’s shack, the boy led him upriver to a pier where a half-dozen small craft were tied up. There in plain view of a stout riverman, the boy pantomined that this was where Arakasi wished to be. The Spy Master gave him the shell.
The transaction was not lost upon the riverman, who until that moment had counted the filthy man another beggar. Seeing that shell, he reassessed his evaluation and smiled broadly. ‘You seek quick passage upriver, sir?’
Arakasi said, ‘I need to reach Kentosani in haste.’
The man’s chubby face showed pride. ‘I own the swiftest craft in the city, good sir.’ He pointed toward the river, indicating a low, trim messenger boat, with a tiny cabin, moored some distance from the pier. ‘I call her River Mistress. Four banks for eight oarsmen, and full sail.’ Arakasi assessed her lines and efficient lateen sail. She might not be quite as good as her master’s boast, but he would lose any time he might save in looking for one that might be marginally faster.
‘She appears worthy,’ Arakasi said neutrally. ‘Are the rowers aboard?’
The captain said, ‘Indeed. We are waiting for a merchant from Pesh, who desires transport to Sulan-Qu. He has the cabin, sir, but if you are willing to ride on deck, you may take over the accommodations from Sulan-Qu to Kentosani. The price would normally be five hundred centis, but as you are sharing the boat halfway, I’ll take three hundred.’
Arakasi reached into a hidden pocket in his sleeve and withdrew a slug of silver the size of his thumb. At the glint of metal, more wealth than any riverman might expect to see in one place, the captain’s eyes widened. ‘I will have the cabin,’ Arakasi said firmly. ‘And we leave now. The merchant from Pesh can make other arrangements.’
Whatever ethical protestations might have been made died in the captain’s mouth. Offered incalculable riches, he all but fell over backwards in his hurry to escort Arakasi to the dinghy that bobbed at the bottom of the pier. Down the ladder they went, and the captain cast off and rowed as if ten thousand demons pursued him, lest the discommoded merchant appear and raise outcry.
Arakasi boarded the River Mistress while the captain made fast the dinghy and cast off the mooring. The green hull was sloppily painted, but there was no rot or other signs of slack care. The captain might be a frugal man, but he kept his boat sound.
The rowers and tillerman were given their orders and the captain escorted Arakasi to the tiny cabin as the River Mistress swung around into the current and began making her way upriver.
Little more than a low shack amidships, the cabin was large enough for two people. The interior was dark, and stale with the smell of lamp oil mixed with the lingering perfume of its previous passenger. The ports to admit light and air were covered with silk curtains and the cushions were worn, but Arakasi had often endured worse.
He said, ‘This will do. Now, one thing I demand: no one is to disturb me. Anyone who enters the cabin before we reach Kentosani will die.’
Arakasi was not the first strange passenger the boat owner had accommodated, and given the price he had paid, no objections were raised over conditions.
Arakasi sat and closed the louvered doors, then removed the bundle he carried inside his robe. The tong’s journal had never been out of touch of his skin from the moment he had fled the Obajan’s estate. Now, as he had his first chance to scan the pages, he began his study of the encoded entries. But the strange characters blurred before his eyes. With his head bent over yellowed parchment, he fell into exhausted sleep.
When he next regained consciousness, a glance through a porthole showed that they were halfway to the Holy City. He had slept for two days and a night. Snacking from a basket of fruits presumably left for the merchant from Pesh, he began to unravel the tong’s cipher. It was a clever code, but not beyond Arakasi’s gifts to solve, given that he had nothing else to do for three more days. He saw four columns, and surmised that each entry was comprised of four pieces of information: the date of the contract, the price agreed upon, the name of the target, and the name of the person buying the contract. Next to all but the last few were checkmarks.
Arakasi scanned backward through the records until he found another entry without a checkmark. He assumed this to be the name Mara of the Acoma, and the person paying the price, Desio of the Minwanabi. Another missing checkmark, farther back in the record, would be Mara’s name again, with Desio’s father Jingu beside it. Comparison of the characters revealed that the code was a complex substitution, using a key that was modified with each use.
For hours Arakasi studied the pages, attempting one solution, then another, discarding a third. But after a day and a half of work, he began to identify the pattern of change.
By the time he reached Kentosani, he had translated the journal, and reviewed its entirety several times. He secured pen and paper from the captain, and made a key for Mara, not trusting to transcribe the text lest the journal fall into other hands. But he did mark one entry he had disclosed in some distress, for its ramifications demanded his Lady’s attention.
When the boat reached the Holy City, Arakasi leaped from deck to pier before the owner had fully tied up the craft, disappearing into the press of the crowd without a word. He paused only long enough to acquire suitable clothing, and made his way to the palace. There he sent word, enduring the torment of waiting with the Imperial Guards as his message made its way from servant to servant, at last reaching Lady Mara. Had he more wits or time, he might have devised a disguise to approach her more directly. But the scroll he carried was too important, and he could not risk being killed as an assassin by the Imperial Whites.
When at last he was escorted into Mara’s presence, in her private garden, she smiled, though her gravid condition prevented her from rising to greet him.
An afternoon breeze blew, whipping dust across the stones between the planters, as the Spy Master arrived before Mara and bowed.
With emotion that belied his usual dry manner, Arakasi said, ‘Lady, the task is done.’
Mara did not miss the change in her Spy Master. Her eyes widened, and she motioned for the servants to leave, then indicated that her Spy Master should sit beside her upon the bench
.
Arakasi obeyed and handed his mistress a bundle, wrapped in silk. She opened it and saw the scroll with its red ribbons and Hamoi flower stamping.
Mara said, ‘The tong is destroyed?’
Arakasi’s voice reflected unprecedented weariness. ‘Nearly. There is a small matter left to resolve.’
Mara glanced at the cipher, saw the key, and put the journal aside for later study. ‘Arakasi, what is wrong?’
The Spy Master found words difficult. ‘I discovered … something about myself … on this journey, mistress.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I may not be the man I once was … no, I am not the man I once was.’
Mara resisted the impulse to look into his eyes. She did not try to read his doubts, but waited for him to continue.
‘Mistress, at the time when we are most challenged, by the Assembly and by Jiro of the Anasati … I am not sure I am equal to the tasks before us.’
Mara touched his hand in gentle affection. ‘Arakasi, I have always admired your resourcefulness and the amusement I took whenever you would appear mysteriously, in this garb or that.’ She regarded him with seriousness underneath her light warmth. ‘But for each curious garb there was a story, a mission in which you endured danger and pain.’
Arakasi said, ‘A girl died.’
Mara said, ‘Who was she?’
‘The sister to another.’ He hesitated, painfully unsure of himself.
‘She is important to you, this other girl?’
Arakasi stared at the green sky above the garden, inwardly recalling a face that seemed to shift from that of a taunting courtesan to a dying, frightened girl’s. ‘I don’t know. I have never known anyone like her.’
Mara was silent a moment. ‘I have said that I admired you the most among those in my service.’ Her eyes looked into his. ‘But of my closest officers, you have always seemed the least in need of affection.’
Arakasi sighed. ‘In truth, my Lady, I also thought myself without that need. Now I wonder.’
‘You feel that the Spy Master of the Acoma cannot afford friendships?’
Arakasi emphatically shook his head. ‘No, he cannot, which leaves us with a problem.’
‘How much of a problem?’ she asked.
Arakasi rose, as if giving rein to restlessness might ease his turmoil. ‘The only man I would trust to have the skill to keep you safe in my place is, unfortunately, the one who is trying to destroy you.’
Mara looked up at him, a spark of humor in her eyes. ‘Chumaka of the Anasati?’
Arakasi nodded. ‘I must continue to seek out his agents and destroy them.’
‘What of this unfinished matter of the tong?’
Arakasi saw at a glance that she would have all the tale, so he told her of his trip to the South that had led to the death of the Obajan. He mentioned the risk the courtesan Kamlio posed to them. ‘As long as the tong holds out any hope of regaining their journal, its assassins will torture and kill anyone they suspect of having information. Only after their honor is compromised publicly will they begin to wither and die.
‘That scroll is the only means they have of ascertaining who they are contracted to kill. Once it is learned that the journal has been stolen, any man may claim the tong owes him a death, and they have no way to prove him a liar. More, it is their natami, and its absence shows that Turakamu no longer looks upon their efforts with favor.’
Arakasi tucked his fingers in his sash. He paused as if choosing words, then said, ‘Once you have reviewed the records to your satisfaction, I will insure that every rumormonger in the Holy City is aware of the theft. As word spreads, the tong will disburse like smoke.’
Mara once again was not diverted from the underlying issue. ‘This courtesan. She’s the one who has … caused such a change in you?’
Arakasi’s eyes betrayed confusion. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps she is but a symptom of it. Either way, she is … a danger to your safety. Out of prudence, she should be … silenced.’
Mara observed her Spy Master’s posture and manner, then made a judgment. ‘Go and save her from the tong,’ she ordered. ‘Silence her by bringing her under Acoma protection.’
‘It will require a great deal of money, mistress.’ His voicing a practical concern barely hid his relief and embarrassment.
‘More than you have asked for before?’ she said with mock alarm. Arakasi had been her most expensive retainer over the years, and the lavish provisions she had allowed him had earned her many a scolding from Jican.
‘This is not something I do on behalf of the Acoma,’ he revealed, an implied plea that somehow won past his iron control. He was not the sure servant, but a supplicant. Only once before had Mara seen him like this, when he had thought himself a failure and begged her permission to take his own life with the sword. She arose and gripped his hand tightly. ‘If you do this for yourself, you act also for the Acoma. That is my will. Jican is inside. He will provide whatever funds you need.’
Arakasi started to speak, but found no words. So he simply bowed and said, ‘Mistress.’
She watched him depart, and as he entered her apartment in the palace, she beckoned to a servant hovering in the doorway. She needed a cool, soothing drink. As the maid came to attend her, Mara pondered upon the consequences of countermanding Arakasi’s judgment. She took a risk, encouraging him to spare the courtesan. Then, she thought with a bitterness left over from past losses, what would the future bring for any of them if she made no allowance for matters of the heart?
Light shone through the dome. It caught like fire on the golden throne, and cast triangular dapples across the pyramidal dais. Twenty levels down, it warmed the marble floors and flashed on the rail where the supplicants came and knelt for audience with the Light of Heaven. Despite the small slave boys swishing plumed fans, the Emperor’s throne room was airless. Officials sweltered under their finery, and the younger of the two present, Lord Hoppara, sat still. It was too hot even to fidget. The elderly Lord Frasai reclined upon his cushion, now and again nodding under his ceremonial helm, as if he fought off sleep.
The five priests in attendance murmured, and tended their censers, adding the reek of incense to the already stifling atmosphere.
On the golden throne, weighed down beneath layers of fine mantles, and the massive plumed crown of the Empire, Ichindar looked too worn and thin for a man in his late thirties. The day had been fraught with tense decisions, and the session was not over. Once weekly, the Emperor held a Day of Appeals, when, from dawn to sunset, he was available to his people. He must sit in his chair of state, and give judgments for as long as supplicants should appear, until the hour of sundown, when the priests sang their evening invocations. Once, when a Warlord had held office over the Council, the Day of Appeals had been ceremonial. Beggars, low priests, commoners with petty grievances – these had gathered to hear the wisdom of a ruler who shared mystery with their gods. Ichindar often had napped in his chair while the priests acted as his voice, dispensing alms or advice as their gods allowed in righteousness.
Since then the nature of the Day of Appeals had changed. The supplicants who came to beg audience were often nobles, and many times enemies, seeking to weaken, extort, or break the imperial rule over the Nations. Now, Ichindar sat rigid on the golden throne and played the deadly Game of the Council, in words, in judgments, in the knowledge that the stakes were often his own supremacy. Sundown always found him exhausted, and many days he could not be trusted to recall the name of the consort selected that week to share his bed.
Today he dared not bend his head more than a fraction, lest the weight of his crown of state bow his neck. He flicked fingernails dusted with gilt toward the woman who sat on the white-and-gold cushion at his feet.
‘Lady, you should not be here, but resting in the cool gardens by the singing fountains.’
Heavily pregnant, and tired enough that her skin looked transparent, Mara dredged up a smile. ‘If you try to command me, I’ll spoil your image of authority by refusing t
o leave.’
Ichindar muffled a chuckle behind one wing of his pearl-crusted collar. ‘You would, too, you insufferably willful woman. When I named you Servant of the Empire, I created a monster.’
Mara’s smile vanished as she inclined her head toward the floor below, where the next supplicant approached and made his bow. Her eyes turned hard as precious metal, and the hand on her lap fan clenched white.
Ichindar followed her glance, and muttered what might have been a profanity under his breath. One of the priests twitched around in annoyance, then quickly faced front as the voice of the Emperor rang out through the domed chamber of audience.
‘Lord Jiro of the Anasati, know that you have the ear of the gods through our ear. Heaven will hear your plea, and we will answer. Rise. You have leave to speak.’
The slight snap to the consonants warned of Ichindar’s irritation. His hazel eyes were chilly as he watched the Anasati Lord straighten up from his obeisance and stand at the rail, his avid, scholar’s gaze trained intently upon the golden throne, and also the woman who sat before it, at the Emperor’s feet. Jiro bowed. Although he observed the forms of courtesy, his graceful delivery somehow managed to mock.
‘The imperial dais holds company today,’ he opened, shifting to Mara. ‘Good day, Lady of the Acoma, Servant of the Empire.’ His lips thinned in what a friend might have construed for a smile. An enemy knew better.
Mara felt a chill chase across her skin. Never before had a pregnancy made her feel helpless; now, under Jiro’s predatory regard, she felt her clumsy heaviness, and that unnerved her. Still, she did not lose control and allow herself to be baited.
Ichindar’s voice cracked across the interval that followed, as Acoma Lady and Anasati Lord matched stares. Slender and worn as the Emperor was, his authority was real, a palpable air of force even in that enormous chamber. ‘If you have come to us as supplicant, Lord Jiro, you will not waste our time in idle social chat.’
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