'How did you manage?' Mara asked.
'Without alternative, I simply went into the temple myself. I was allowed to live long enough to tell them why I did what few men have dared.' Arakasi smiled slightly at his memory. He was perhaps the only petitioner in centuries to enter the Temple of Sibi uninvited, and certainly the only one allowed to leave. 'The temples support your cause at this time, since the alternative would set them the more firmly under the heel of the Assembly. But sentiments could change, if civil order is not swiftly restored. We'll get no second chance. Great Ones are out in force in the city. More than a dozen watch the entrances to the palace, as they are certain you'll somehow try to mask your arrival in the confusion.'
Mara's frown was instinctive. 'They've entered a city under threat of civil war, and done nothing to repress the Omechan siege?'
Arakasi looked grim. 'Indeed not. My best impression is that they have forsaken their insistence on peace in favor of their own concerns.' He looked hard at the diminutive woman who seemed half-smothered under the weight of her imperial overrobes. 'I don't know what you've accomplished in the South, but I would hazard a guess, my Lady, that the Black Robes have learned to be afraid of you.'
'Not of me,' Mara corrected, embarrassed. 'Of these.' Her gesture encompassed the cho-ja mages who stood like sentinels to either side.
Arakasi regarded her alien companions, his eyes widening at the splendor of their many-colored wings. 'I never knew your kind could be so beautiful,' he said in awed reverence.
The Chakaha mages brushed aside the human praise without awkwardness. The left-hand one addressed Mara. 'Good Servant, danger grows as we speak. Human warriors are entering the tunnels by the Great Ones' command, searching for word of your hiding.'
'Where?' Mara demanded, the memory of the burned-out hive that she had so narrowly escaped all too recent a horror. 'Has there been bloodshed?'
'Not yet,' the second mage replied. 'The warriors obey the restraint of the Assembly not to fight unless they meet opposition. And the cho-ja will not embrace conflict until they are confronted without alternative. For now, they abandon the hives that are invaded, leaving many empty galleries and tunnels to be searched in profitless darkness. The human armies make poor progress. This moment they concentrate their sweep to the south, near the estates of your birth. But the search will be widened, very soon. Your Great Ones are not fools.'
'Then the hour is come,' Mara said, startling all present with what seemed an indomitable strength. 'We will go forward.'
At her word, the cho-ja mages gave a signal. A task force of workers marched to the fore of the tunnel and began to burrow upward. Dirt pattered down, and then chunks of mortar and tile. Light pierced the gloom, yellow and clear, from the domed skylight over the imperial antechamber.
A cho-ja stuck his head through the opening. He buzzed back a brief communication, and the mage to Mara's left said, 'The antechamber is clear of enemies. Your husband and son await.' Then it paused, as if in hesitation. 'Lady,' it intoned, 'we wish you luck and brave fortune. But move swiftly. Our spells cannot stay the Black Robes' attack indefinitely. You will have a short time to achieve all that you must, and then there will be chaos and a devastating backlash of thwarted energies. We wish you to know, if you fail, or if we fail you, that it was for this battle that we were sent from Chakaha. We are more than your defense, Good Servant; we are an embassy to bring in a new order.'
Mara looked upward into the mages' alien visages, which reared above her with expressions no human alive could fully know. It did not escape her that both had unfurled their wings into fighting stance, as they prepared to stand down the might of a unified Assembly. Their courage moved her to tears. 'Let it be known, good friends, that so long as I live, I will not fail you. We will triumph or die together.'
She turned and faced forward at once, lest the fullness of her courage collapse under the weight of the dangers that threatened. Straight, stiff-backed under her gold-studded robes, the Servant of the Empire started forward toward the opening.
Mara made her way with unsteady steps over the fallen earth and the clumps of tile and mortar. Unobtrusively, Arakasi moved to steady her elbow. She flashed him a grateful smile, glad for his human touch after the company of so many cho-ja.
And then she was out, dazzled by late-day sunlight, and by the flash of a magnificence of gold armor.
She caught her breath. Red hair pushed out from beneath the helm of imperial gold; Justin's red hair, she realised with a great thump of her heart. He did not look like a boy anymore, armored in the finery of an Emperor. Mara shook to realise that this was the hour of his wedding.
She faltered in her step as the boy bowed to her, son to mother, as was proper. All that brilliance of goldwork felt wrong; as though she should be bowing to the floor, as she once had to Ichindar.
Then the boy straightened and gave a undignified whoop. 'Mother!' he cried and ran forward.
Mara forgot her finery and reached. Her son rushed into her arms, taller, heavier now, fully and impressively coming closer to manhood. As his arms locked around her neck, she realised she did not have to bend down anymore to embrace him. His shoulders had started to broaden in a way that felt all too familiar. He was all Kevin's, Mara realised; he would have his father's great height. The jolt of that restored her to dignity.
As her son stepped back from her embrace, he regarded her levelly with eyes that were the image of his barbarian father's. 'I am ready, Good Servant. The Princess Jehilia awaits.'
Mara's voice failed her. She had lost two children already, Ayaki, and the little one poisoned before his birth. Now her only living son stood resolutely ready to give his life for her honor. The moment was more than she could endure.
Then Justin's face broke into a grin of such insouciance, she was again recalled to past days, and to Kevin's irrepressible humor. 'We'd better hurry,' her son admonished. 'The late Emperor's First Wife keeps having hysterics, and all of her makeup is going to run.'
Mara rallied. 'What of Jehilia? Did she have hysterics, too?'
Justin gave back a boy's shrug. 'She shouted a lot. She locked herself in her room. Then somebody asked her if she would rather wed an Omechan with a paunch and grey hair, and she let the maids in to get her dressed.'
The girl had sense, Mara thought, as she took her place at Justin's side and prepared to enter the great audience hall. Arakasi stood by her, to steady her other side, and no one seemed to notice that he yet wore the robes of a drudge as the iron-studded doors swung open and the musicians began the fanfare that announced the arrival of the groom.
Mara stepped resolutely ahead, aware of her own hand, sweating, where she gripped Justin's. She wondered as she passed through the ranked columns of the Priests of the Twenty Higher Orders whether the gods would strike her down for pride, and for the sheer arrogance of presumption that caused her to dare set her son on the throne as the next Light of Heaven, the ninety-second Emperor of Tsuranuanni. But the representative of the Temple of Juran, God of Justice, did not look displeased, and the High Priest of Turakamu gave her a small smile of encouragement. Apart from the rest, behind the Red God's priest, stood three shrouded figures in black, the Sisters of Sibi, Goddess of Death. Even those chilling aspects seemed to reassure Mara with a slight inclination of their heads. The High Priest of Jastur, the God of War, slammed his gloved fist against his chest in salute, as Mara passed, his blow ringing on the precious iron of his breastplate.
Mara took another step, and another, her inner confidence rebounding. As she passed, the priests of the higher and lower orders began to arrange themselves before the dais, in pairs by their nature, the priests of Lashima, Goddess of Wisdom, falling in beside those of Salana, Mother of Truth. The Priest of Turakamu partnered the Sister of Sibi, while the High Priest of Jastur was joined by the High Priest of Baracan, the Lord of Swords.
Ahead, on the imperial dais, waited a small, blond-haired girl in a sparkling veil of gold tissue. Jehilia, Mara ide
ntified, as her maids drew back her headdress; the girl still had freckles, from too much time playing truant in the imperial gardens. And if she looked pale beneath the paint and powder of her makeup, she saw the Good Servant, and grinned.
'Let the doors be closed, and the ceremonial matrimony begin!' intoned the priest of Chochocan, the Good God, in ritual opening. Behind him and to his right the High Priest of Tomachca, Lover of Children, began silent prayer. Mara stared at him a lingering moment, remembering that the lesser brother of Chochocan was also known as the Bringer of Peace. She prayed he would be so today.
Justin's fingers gave Mara's a last squeeze as she let him loose to take his place at his Princess's side. Mara moved to where Hokanu waited and as the ceremony began, she slipped her hand into his.
* * *
The Imperial Palace was bustling. Messengers hurried by, and servants moved purposefully across the courtyards in an anxious rush to complete errands. Perched on an elbow by a windowsill, Shimone of the Assembly watched their industry with deep, unreadable eyes. His face was more than usually austere, and if anything, he was yet more spare with words. He moved his head slightly, calling attention to the unusual level of activity.
The gesture was noted by Hochopepa, who sat upon cushions before a low table and a tray of half-consumed sugared fruits. The stout magician acknowledged with a nod and spoke softly so that only Shimone could hear. 'Something more than everyday business is afoot. I've counted five priests hidden under cowls, and by the smell on the air, the kitchens are baking a banquet. Odd fare, for a city under attack.'
As if to punctuate his observation, a large rock fired from a siege engine sailed down from the air and shattered in a courtyard nearby. A stray dog fled, yelping. Hochopepa gazed through the cracked screen with narrowed eyes. 'Those damned things are starting to irritate me. Another stone this close and I'll go out and . . .' His threat was cut off as he was distracted by another band of oddly dressed nobles hurrying past the window. 'We expected an influx of Ruling Lords to convene in the old council chambers, but this seems something more.'
Shimone stirred, standing straighten 'It is much more. Motecha will not be stayed much longer from taking action.'
Hochopepa regarded the remains of his snack with wistful regret. 'I will not be stayed much longer from taking action,' he corrected in faint reproof. 'I think the Lady is here already, and that we waste our time in this vigil.'
Shimone said nothing, but his eyebrows raised, and he pushed himself away from the window. Not to be left behind as the taller, slenderer mage stalked from the chamber, Hochopepa lumbered up from his cushions and hurried after.
Servants engaged in nameless activities fled or prostrated themselves in fear as the pair made their way down the passage. If the palace corridors were a maze of constructions added one on top of another over the centuries, the Black Robes needed no directions. They proceeded without error to a red-painted door emblazoned with an enameled seal. They did not knock, but entered the office of the Imperial Chancellor.
Dajalo of the Keda stood resplendent in his regalia of office, red and black robes cut in layers, with gold trim flashing at collar and cuffs. His massive headdress was straight. He looked composed, if pale. His staff members seemed less poised. The secretary at his elbow trembled, half-sick with fear, while the runner slave by the outer screen cowered. The reason for so much nervous unrest was obvious: the cushions left out for audience with petitioners were all taken, occupied by a half-dozen Great Ones. Motecha was pacing. Looking far from pleased, he glanced up as his two colleagues entered, but continued the interrogation he had in progress. 'Any word of her?'
The subject of his reference needed no qualifier. 'None, Great One.' Dajalo bowed to the new arrivals and, adroitly as any skilled courtier, used the movement to unobtrusively blot running sweat from his brow. He straightened up, stiffly formal in appearance. If as Imperial Chancellor he felt uneasy in the presence of so many Black Robes, he contrived to hide it well.
Hochopepa crossed behind the imposing desk, plucked the chancellor's own seat cushion from the floor, and removed it to the embrasure beneath the window, where a breeze refreshed the air; the room had been crowded throughout the morning, and the servants too timid to venture in and open the screens. Hochopepa sat down. He plucked a sweetmeat from a pottery urn left for guests and chewed, looking dangerously intent for a man with a round, merry face. 'Oh, she will be here, certainly,' he murmured around his mouthful. 'The High Council is reconvening at this moment, and the Lady of the Acoma wouldn't miss it. Never has there been one to play the Great Game like Mara.'
'Quite,' Motecha snapped irritably. 'She would die first. As she will, the second we discover her location.'
Shimone looked faintly distasteful. 'We all must die; it is a rule of nature.'
The Imperial Chancellor buried his discomfort behind a studied mask of urbanity.
Motecha glanced from one face to another, but said nothing. His colleagues were still. The suspicion that Mara was guilty of uncovering some of the most closely guarded secrets of the Assembly, secrets that for an outsider were a death warrant, seemed to color the very air with tension. Not even Hochopepa and Shimone had been able to deny that the willingness of the cho-ja to shelter her suggested worse: that she might have seeded a rebellion, a breaking of the treaty that had stood for thousands of years. As convincingly as Shimone and others had argued that the Servant of the Empire deserved a full hearing before her life became forfeit, this time their efforts had been overruled.
The Assembly had voted. Mara's execution was now beyond debate.
Few would presume to act alone against the Servant of the Empire, but Tapek had, and the worst trouble had resulted.
Black Robes were starting at shadows in the suspicion that their privileged status stood threatened. Now more critical issues were at hand than a brother Black Robe's rashness. Hochopepa and Shimone exchanged glances of understanding. They had, in their way, admired Mara, who had accomplished much good for the Empire.
But now she had dared too much. The stout magician felt drawn into conflict: his loyalty to the Assembly and the vows sworn there when he took the Black Robe, against the allure of fresh ideas, many of them prompted by the heresies that Milamber the barbarian had shared with him.
Hochopepa valued the legacy of his friendship with Milamber. Over the years the Tsurani-born Black Robe had increasingly employed his arts in the cause of the common people. Now, with changes in the wind too great for even his progressive thinking to encompass, he wished for more time. Hochopepa longed for clear conviction on which course was right to follow: to work with Motecha's faction for Mara's immediate destruction or to embrace her call for reform and consider the unthinkable, after a majority vote: to oppose the Assembly's resolve, even perhaps save her life.
Suddenly Shimone took a long, swift step toward the window. He accompanied his movement with a penetrating glance at Hochopepa, who swallowed his sweetmeat more suddenly than he had intended.
'You feel it, too,' the fat magician said to Shimone.
'Feel what?' Motecha interrupted. And then he also fell silent, as he sensed what had alerted the others.
A creeping chill pervaded the air, not the simple cold of shadow, nor even the clammy feeling prompted by uneasiness. Each magician present knew the unmistakable, subliminal tingle of powerful magic.
Shimone poised like a dog on point. 'Someone sets wards!' he announced in clipped tones.
Hochopepa rose awkwardly to his feet. 'No Black Robe creates this spell.' His admission came with reluctance, as if he deeply wished to claim otherwise.
'The cho-ja!' shouted Motecha. His face deepened to purple. 'She has brought mages from Chakaha!'
The small chamber erupted into chaos as the other Black Robes surged to their feet. Their expressions, to a man, were stormy. The Imperial Chancellor was forced cowering into the cranny behind his desk to stay clear of them, but no one heeded his discomfort.
'Mara
will die for this!' Motecha continued. 'Sevean, call at once for reinforcements.'
Even Hochopepa did not protest this order. 'Hurry,' he urged Shimone, and while the outrage of the assembled magicians whipped to a boiling rage, the fat magician and his slender companion were the first out the door.
The corridor beyond was deserted. Even the servants had fled. 'I don't like this.' Hochopepa's words echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the now empty wing. 'In fact, I have the distinct impression that more than the High Council has been seeking unsanctioned convocation.'
Shimone said nothing, but reached for his teleportation device, activated it, and vanished.
'Hrrumph!' Hochopepa exclaimed in frustration. 'Letting me know where you're going wouldn't exactly be idle chatter!'
Shimone's voice replied out of the air. 'You imply there might be a choice?'
Disgusted that his robe belt seemed suddenly to be cinctured too tight, Hochopepa pawed through cloth until he found his pocket. He grasped his teleportation device and engaged it, just as Sevean, Motecha, and the others shouted from the antechamber of the Imperial Chancellor's office. As he disappeared from the hallway, Hochopepa felt his last disconcerting thought cut off by the disorientation of his transfer: which party would accomplish Mara's execution? He and Shimone, who acted only for the purpose of the Assembly's self-preservation, or the others, led by Motecha, who lusted after revenge?
'She has made fools of us, and worse!' Sevean's voice rang out just before the shift in Hochopepa's location became accomplished.
Worse, the fat magician concluded as he reappeared, puffing, in the sunlit splendor of the courtyard outside the antechambers of the imperial audience hall. Mara had brought power to battle absolute power, and now far more than civil war might tear the Empire asunder.
The courtyard too was deserted. The flowering trees that bordered the wall and the approach to the wide steps hung still in the noon air. No birds flew, and no insects droned around the flowers. The din of the armies that clashed at the walls and the unceasing battering of rocks from the siege engines seemed distant and faint. If the noise was inconvenient, none of the Black Robes made any move at this juncture to quell it.
Empire - 03 - Mistress Of The Empire Page 73
