Mara rose from her cushions, so that the servants she had signaled to pack up the tea utensils could go about their duties without disturbing her. ‘Why do you tell me these things, Queen?’
Black, multifaceted eyes fixed upon Mara, unknowable as the alien thoughts behind them. Then the cho-ja ruler spoke in what seemed almost wistful reminiscence. ‘Before I merged with the hive mind, a young Queen recalls a human girl who was kind and who said she was beautiful. Of all your nation, you alone come to us with the intent to create harmony. You bargain like others, but you are more … you are what I believe you humans would call a friend. If the burden that has oppressed my kind throughout this nation is ever to change … we will need friends with bold minds such as yours.’
So the ‘treaty’ was not an accord, after all, but a forced acknowledgment of terms! Mara sucked in her breath. She dared not press for more, not when the Queen had waved her Force Commander forward to usher her from the breeding chamber. The discussion was being brought to a close.
Uncertain what the protocols might be for formal acknowledgment of friendship between races, Mara settled for the bow that denoted an alliance between houses, adding personal words of her own. ‘You have always been a friend to me. I would accord your people the same considerations as I would any house within my clan.’
After the cho-ja Queen had nodded her own form of acknowledgment and awarded the Acoma retinue her gracious leave to depart, Lujan offered his Lady assistance into her litter. Gone was the lackluster quiet that had marked her sojourn back in her childhood home. Now Mara’s eyes shone. Her movements were eager as she gestured to her bearer slaves to take up the poles of her litter. The Force Commander donned his plumed helm and marched at her side from the breeding chamber.
Companion of many years, commander of her armies, and onetime bandit, Lujan could not help but grin. Here went a mistress he would die for, without hesitation, not just for the honor and duty due any Ruling Lady, but for love and pride as well. Despite the overwhelming threat posed by the Assembly of Magicians, Mara showed the indefatigable spirit that had captured his heart from the start. For where a tired woman of middle years had entered these warrens, a Lady vigorous with renewed confidence, at the height of her power, would emerge. Against all probability, Mara had defied the limits of her circumstance: she had found a clear focus and a hope where none had existed, to find reprieve from difficulties that her culture believed unassailable.
Many were the Tsurani Ruling Lords who would have fallen upon their swords in despair at the breach of honor the Acoma Lady had been forced by the Great Ones to swallow. Her late enemy Tasaio of the Minwanabi, once the most powerful man in the Nations, had committed suicide rather than endure beyond shame. It was not cowardice but her own indomitable will that bound Mara to life.
The Assembly, Lujan decided in a moment of unabashed cockiness, had better look after its interests. Though how his diminutive Lady might find a way to face down powers of magic on a scale as vast as that commanded by the Black Robes, only the gods might know.
Afternoon sunlight fell through the screens and striped the parquet floor, and the akasi vines beside the garden walk scented the air of the room that had served Mara as study in the original Acoma estate house. The cho-ja-made clock still chimed softly on the hour; mellowed now by layers of wax was the patch of flooring by the screen that had been sanded and refinished since the day her first husband had stomped indoors wearing studded battle sandals in the aftermath of a sarcat hunt. Older memories crowded behind: of Lord Sezu setting the family chop to documents, while her brother, Lanokota, scrawled pictures in chalk on the floor by their father’s feet. Mara recalled rubbing at the scribbled figures, her fat little-girl’s palms a smudged and dusty white. The smell of chalk filled her nostrils now, even as in those bygone days of her girlhood. But the baby by her knee was Kasuma; and the boy who scrawled pictures only he understood onto sanded wood, a fiery redhead of a barbarian father. Hers were the hands that set the Acoma chop in the ink to seal the last letter of the day. A bin of ribboned parchments beside her writing desk awaited the arrival of the messenger runner, who would see them taken to the guild for swift delivery.
Mara set aside the heavy chop and mentally reviewed her instructions for Jican, Incomo, and Keyoke, back at the lakeside estate. They would keep her affairs running smoothly through what might become a prolonged absence. Irrilandi, her second Force Leader, was currently off with the Shinzawai, supporting Hokanu as he consolidated his control as Ruling Lord. There had been minor attempts by enemies, and one or two ruptures of alliances caused by pressure from traditionalist factions. Hokanu had not yet sent formal reply to the Emperor’s request that he assume his father’s imperial post. In his letter to Mara he had explained that his delay was a ploy designed to draw an unfriendly rival into the open.
He had written: ‘My father’s First Adviser Dogondi is a treasure – fiendishly clever, and a humorist. He likes to humble our foes by making them seem ridiculous. As he said to me the other day, “Kill a man, and you cede him honor in the eyes of the gods. Laugh at him and you shame him.”’
Mara gave a half-smile in reminiscence of this truth. Then her pleasure faded as she considered the rest of her husband’s missive. Although he was under much stress, and subject daily to criticism from several jealous cousins, he still might have asked in more depth after the health of his daughter. That Mara proposed a long and possibly dangerous journey while the child still needed a wet nurse did not seem to trouble him.
But then, in all fairness, Hokanu was not a man to harp upon his worries. He might be sick inside with concern, but not wanting to burden her. Mara might disguise her journey as a pilgrimage all she wished, and her traditionalist enemies might be fooled. The Anasati might swallow the ruse for several months before Jiro’s First Adviser discovered the truth, but the Assembly of Magicians would quickly sift through subterfuge if they perceived any reason to question her motives. Mara shut her eyes and rubbed damp hair back from her brow. She put aside the nightmare memory of the fiery rain that had beset the Imperial Arena when Milamber had manifested his arcane anger.
If the Black Robes chose to stop her, all would be lost in one wrenching, brutal instant. She must not give them cause to suspect, and that meant weeks of careful planning.
Again Mara tried to thrust the horror of Milamber’s destruction of the Imperial Games from her thoughts. The barbarian Black Robe had been unruly, even stubborn, she had heard. The Assembly itself had exiled him, after his acts, which had crossed the Order of Heaven by causing slaves to be freed. A thought occurred that perhaps this Milamber viewed life in the same quirky fashion her lover Kevin had … that life meant more than honor, and that religion did not rule the lives of men but instead offered guidance. Mara frowned. If Milamber had been considered a renegade by his fellows, might he not be a source of inspiration in her present dilemma?
Acting with headstrong inspiration, Mara clapped her hands. The boy appointed by the servants as her runner slave appeared at the door, a tow-headed youngster scarcely ten years of age. He had been promoted from the post of herd boy to that of house slave, and still felt awkward wearing livery. Mara saw that he trembled in awe as he made his bow.
She took pity, though shy boys her sons were not, and she had better experience bullying young warriors into line than drawing a quiet one out. ‘Kalizo,’ she said. ‘Come here.’
The boy scrambled back to his feet, all knees and wide eyes. He came to her, tripping awkwardly on the edge of the carpet. His sandals were new, the soles not yet softened with wear.
Mara fished a cho-ja-made candy from the vase by her desk. She tossed it into the air, and smiled as the boy shed his clumsiness and caught it. ‘Kalizo, can you tell me when the next silk shipment is bound for the City of the Plains, for export into Midkemia?’
‘Next week, Lady.’ The boy had a lisp, made more pronounced by his mouthful of hard candy.
Mara debated a moment, then reached
for her pen with shaking fingers. ‘I have a letter to go with the factor,’ she instructed. ‘Fetch him here, for I would have words with him.’
‘At once, Lady.’ The boy bowed, spun, and departed with a speed that justified his appointment to his new position. Mara bit her lip as he raced out past the screen. Then she hastily sealed her brief missive, which was addressed to Milamber, Magician, Kingdom of the Isles, Midkemia. As she set the wax and inked the Acoma chop, she wondered whether with the seal upon the letter she was inviting her own doom.
Then the silk factor arrived, escorted by Kalizo. Her misgivings fled before the need to give the man instructions that caused him to tremble. His evident nerves made little Kasuma fussy, and Mara had to call for the child’s nurse. Justin tossed aside his chalk with a loud announcement that he was hungry. Straight and lithe, where Ayaki had been stocky, he sprang to his feet and challenged Kalizo to a race to the kitchens. Mara nodded dismissal to the runner slave, who shouted and grinned, not at all abashed at the prospect of a contest. As the two boys bolted off at top speed, Mara half expected to hear a squawk of protest from old Nacoya … but those days were gone forever.
Left alone with her thoughts as the sun dipped in the west, Mara called a servant to open the screens. Years had passed since she had seen the shatra birds fly at sundown over Acoma lands. Considered the lucky symbol of her house, the creatures were a source of delight to Mara, as they greeted the night like a ritual with a celebration of flight and song. As her eyes followed the dance patterns of birds against gold-edged clouds, Mara thought more on her husband. He had not taken any concubines, nor had he made further issue of his disappointment at Kasuma’s gender. Mara supposed the matter was left dormant deliberately. Hokanu’s sole reference had involved the promise of a deep talk upon her return to the estates. A boat, he had said, with only themselves inside and a tray of light supper and sa wine, on calm waters; no slaves, no servants, only a lantern and himself at the oars. That he left the matter unexplored in his writing spoke volumes about his discomfort. Mara rested her chin in her hands and sighed. Whatever he had to say, it would be months before she had the liberty to meet with her husband, on water or dry land. For all had been done to prepare for her departure on her quest to seek protection against the Assembly. All that held her now was a final consultation with Arakasi, who was due to report back at any time.
Much later, when the study room was lamplit, and the stars pricked the sky where the shatra birds had flown, Mara was disturbed in her reading by the door servant, who brought word that a shabby itinerant poet had arrived to beg the Lady’s indulgence.
Mara looked up from her scroll in mild interest. ‘You did not send him on to the kitchen,’ she stated. ‘This poet, did he say he had verses for me in so-mu-ta rhyming?’
The door servant frowned, the academic reference beyond his education to fathom. ‘Indeed, my Lady. He insisted that would mean something to you.’ His face creased with misgiving. ‘I should have sent him off. He is very ragged.’
Mara’s expression warmed to a smile. ‘Very ragged, unbathed, and perhaps with a woman in tow?’
The servant’s eyes widened. ‘You know him?’
‘I do.’ Mara rolled up her scroll, taut with anticipation. ‘Have him shown in.’
The door servant bowed, still mystified. ‘Your will, Lady.’
Presently the poet and his woman were brought into Mara’s private study. Arakasi wore a mantle that looked as if it were fashioned out of moth-eaten blankets, sewn over at the cuffs and hemmed with tawdry fringes torn off a floor carpet. His companion was muffled under a patched, sun-faded robe that had once been adorned with shell sequins. Most had been ripped off with wear, leaving a sad collection of hanging threads. Her feet were filthy, and her sandals in tatters.
Mara, with one swift glance, clapped for attendants. ‘Wash water. Towels, soap, and something from my clothes chest that is pretty and clean.’ She peered under the concubine’s hood, and glimpsed a shining sweep of hair so heavy and thick it looked as if spun from red-bee honey. ‘Make the color green,’ she suggested to the maid. Then she smiled at Arakasi. ‘How large a supper tray do you wish? As always, you appear famished.’ She raised a finger as her Spy Master drew breath to speak. ‘The verses can wait until after you are both refreshed.’
Arakasi offered a performer’s bow and raked back the hood of his mantle. In the lamplight, he looked exhausted, bruised in spirit, and held together by sheer nerves. Mara was taken aback. Then the concubine slipped off her overrobe, and the Lady of the Acoma watched Arakasi look at her, and understood all.
‘You must be Kamlio,’ she greeted. ‘I bid you welcome.’
The girl started to sink into the deep bow that denoted lowly station. Mara fractionally shook her head, and, fast as reflex, Arakasi cupped the girl’s elbow, stopping her obeisance by dint of her slight recoil from his touch.
As though her gesture had not implied rejection, Arakasi addressed her quietly. ‘The mistress has bought your freedom, not your service. Your contract is your own, to tear up or resell, as you please.’ His deft hands smoothed back the hood of her underrobe, baring a face of breathtaking beauty, and pale eyes bright as sparks with resentment.
Mara stifled an urge to recoil, so much did the manner of this girl remind her of another, a courtesan and a spy named Teani, who had once tried to kill her. ‘Gods,’ she whispered below her breath. ‘Gods take pity.’ Her expression was for Arakasi, and the tortured girl he had rescued from usage.
Kamlio spoke, her low, modulated voice perfectly tempered in hate. ‘I would hear such a promise from the Lady whose centis have bought me.’
Mara thrust aside her anger at the impertinence. ‘You may trust my servant, Arakasi, as myself in this matter. Kamlio, I, too, owe him my life. I chose to accept that gift from him with joy. He may have found you, child. But never forget: it was I who bought you from bondage. You are not brought here as a reward for his service.’ The lamplight glittered off the girl’s eyes as she tensed. Mara sighed softly and continued. ‘You are your own woman, Kamlio. Because of you, I have a son and a daughter who may survive and achieve their inheritance. My gratitude is unconditional. You may leave Arakasi, leave these estates, and go your own way at this moment. I will provide you with enough wealth to establish yourself, in business, as a trader, or simply to live in modest comfort for the rest of your life. Or you may use the gift as a dowry, should you seek a husband. However, should you wish to take service, I would be pleased to have you stay.’
The faint hiss of the oil lamps filled the stillness that followed. Kamlio’s fingers clenched and unclenched on the ragged cloth of her gown. She did not smile, or settle, or relax, but stayed poised, like a creature caught and cornered. Mara forced herself to meet that hostile, gemstone gaze. ‘What is your desire, Kamlio?’
Plainly the girl distrusted kindness. Her eyes shone too bright, and her manner posed a defiant challenge as she said, ‘Good Servant, great Lady, I’d prefer to be alone. I do not wish a pretty robe but an ugly one. I do not want the eyes of men upon me. I want a sleeping mat and a room to myself.’
‘As you ask, you shall have,’ Mara allowed. She sent for her personal maid, Misa, who had been many years in Acoma service, and ordered Kamlio shown to a guest chamber and made comfortable. When the girl had gone, and the servant who entered with wash basins and towels had allowed Arakasi to refresh himself, she gestured her Spy Master to the nearest comfortable cushion.
He sank into his seat as if his knees gave out. His eyes were sunken, almost haunted, and his mouth twisted crooked with irony. Softly he said, ‘Thank you, Lady.’
Mara looked upon him with pity. ‘She means that much to you?’
The Spy Master steepled his hands under his chin, an old habit he had when attempting a difficult explanation. ‘She has changed me. When I look at her, I see my mother, sometimes. When she speaks, she reminds me of my sister. Both of them could be vicious, at the moments they hurt the most.�
� He paused, then added, ‘She blames me for the death of her sister. Quite justly, I fear.’
Quietly Mara gestured to the servant who waited at the door with the food tray. As the man entered with his burden in deferential silence, she regarded the Spy Master whom she had known for years, but whose life remained a mystery to her. After the man had served them, Mara motioned for him to leave. When she and Arakasi were alone, Mara said, ‘You never mentioned any of your family to me before.’
Arakasi’s gaze flicked up, sharply defensive. ‘There was little of worth to mention. My mother was a woman of the Reed Life, disease-ridden, run-down, and finally dead from her trade. My sister followed in her footsteps. She died at eighteen, at the hand of a violent client.’
‘I am sorry,’ Mara murmured, and meant it. She should have guessed, since Arakasi set such store by his house allegiance, that he had been born to an honorless family. ‘How did you come to take service with the Tuscai?’
Arakasi made a self-deprecating gesture. ‘There was a warrior who frequented our brothel. He lay often with my mother. I was just three, and was impressed by his loud voice, and the sword he carried with a jewel set in the grip. Sometimes he gave me candy, and ruffled my hair, and sent me on errands. I took them very seriously, only later coming to realise that he was just more tactful than most, sending me out of the way so he could take his paid woman without a foolish boy underfoot. At the time, I decided he was my father.’
Mara did not prompt, but waited, while Arakasi picked a stray thread from a rip in his mantle. After a moment, he continued of his own accord. ‘When my mother died, and the soldier came to bed another girl, I climbed out a window and followed him to his barracks. He was a Strike Leader for the Tuscai. His wife was a cook. She fed me, behind his back. I lived mostly on the streets, lurking around hostels and guild halls, keeping my ears open. I sold information to the Lord of the Tuscai’s hadonra, and over the years became invaluable to him. When I alerted the Lord of the Tuscai to a plot against his life at the hands of the Minwanabi, he allowed me to swear to his service.’
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 166
