Daughter of the Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  Mara bit her lip in distaste. At first she had thought to restore the decor to the one she had known when her father and Lano were still living. Now, with the dust of the barracks unwashed from her feet, and Buntokapi's suicide still stark in her mind, she decided otherwise. Her childhood was behind her. Now, if the Acoma name were to survive, she must accept changes in herself, for the Game of the Council elevated the strong, while the weak perished or fell into ignominious obscurity.

  A tentative knock sounded at the screen. Mara started, turned, and said, 'Enter.'

  Jican hastened through the screen. For the first time in weeks, he carried neither documents nor needra tallies; his hands were empty, and in agitation he bowed and touched his forehead to the floor at the feet of the Lady of the Acoma. Startled, Mara said, 'Hadonra, please rise. I am in no way displeased with you or the way you have handled your duties under the rule of my late husband.'

  But Jican only trembled and bent lower, a figure of abject misery huddled on the fine tiles of the floor. 'Mistress, I beg forgiveness.'

  'For what?' Puzzled and trying to set the servant at ease, Mara stepped back and settled herself on the cushions where she and the hadonra had sustained many a lengthy discussion of estate finances in the past. 'Jican, please rise and speak plainly.'

  The hadonra raised his head but did not leave his knees. He did his best to assume the proper Tsurani restraint, yet managed only to look contrite. 'Mistress, I bring shame to the Acoma. Strive as I might, I cannot - ' He broke off and swallowed uncomfortably. 'Lady, grant me mercy, for I cannot feel grief as I should for the death of the great Lord. He passed with honour and bravery and deserves to be mourned. Yet, in honesty, I cannot feel other than relief.'

  Mara lowered her eyes, disconforted by the hadonra's distress. She picked at a tassel that had torn loose from the corner of one cushion, and reflected soberly that she felt no true grief for Buntokapi. But the shock of the realities of the stakes she had manipulated left her shaken, unbalanced, and confused. Her conscience might sting for her deed, but she felt none of the tortures of cultural loyalty displayed by the man before her. In an analytical vein, she wondered whether this diminished her spirit.

  The hadonra shifted uncomfortably, and Mara realized she must react, if only to speak some words of comfort that she could not genuinely believe. 'Jican, all know that you suffered great tribulations under the command of my late husband. He did not appreciate your virtues, and he did not heed the wisdom of your advice. You served in perfect loyalty while Buntokapi was alive. Now he is your ruler no longer, and I say wear the red wristbands of mourning. Act in seemly fashion, for tradition must be honoured, but trust your heart. If you cannot mourn, then at least honour Buntokapi's memory.'

  Jican bowed low, his nervous manner reflecting profound relief. A harder mistress, he knew, might have asked him to take his life. But with time he had come to appreciate that Mara saw more than most rulers when it came to interpreting the mores of culture. And even her most dedicated adversaries must admire the boldness with which she had dispatched the Anasati threat.

  Mara sat alone for long hours after her hadonra left. The feelings in her heart were far more difficult to sort than those of her servant. She watched the lamps burn low, and pondered, and sometimes dozed. Dreams came to her, of Lanokota wearing red, and of her father spitted on the points of barbarian weapons. Sometimes his body changed, became that of Buntokapi, and sometimes Lano lay in the dust while Keyoke pronounced him dead with all honour. At other times her mind was anguished by the sound of Ayaki's crying, which seemed to go on and on with no end. Towards dawn she woke, sweating and chilled. The candles had burned out, and moonlight streaked the screens, throwing silver-grey patterns on the tile. Mara lay still and, through the debris of her emotions, analysed the one fact that mattered. She felt sorry for Buntokapi, but she did not regret her choices. Service within the temple of Lashima might once have preserved the peace and purity of spirit she had known during girlhood; but having tasted power, and the thrill of the Game of the Council, she now knew she could never give them up.

  Breeze rustled the akasi bushes, wafting the soft scent of flowers over the smells of ink and parchment. Mara lay back against her cushions, her eyes half-closed. In solitude, she granted her husband the one parting tribute she could believe in: he had shown her a moment of greatness, that afternoon in the glade. His own father had squandered that potential, and she had pandered to Buntokapi's faults, for her own selfish gain. Those things could not be changed. But the future lay like a blank parchment. Mara could ensure that Ayaki was raised differently, that the courage and strength of his father never soured into stubbornness. Once she had vowed to train out of Ayaki anything of Bunto, and to foster whatever was Acoma. Now she knew that Ayaki had gifts from Buntokapi that would be foolish to waste. By loving him, and nurturing him, and letting him develop his gifts, she could raise a son of the Acoma that would make even the Anasati proud; and that she vowed would be so.

  11

  Renewal

  Mara listened to the water.

  The tiny stream that ran from the pool in the Acoma contemplation glade splashed softly as it rippled over rocks along its course. The wind gusted through the tree branches, a fitful sound that matched Ayaki's fussy mood. He looked on unsmiling as his mother raised the urn containing his father's remains. The ceremony of mourning was too much for his young mind to encompass; he knew only that the breeze chilled him and his mother wouldn't let him crawl off to play.

  Mara experienced neither sorrow nor regret as she poured Buntokapi's ashes into the hollow beneath the Acoma natami. Her husband was dead, and the Lord of the Anasati mourned a son, even if only a poorly loved third son. Tecuma's bitterness would be doubled, for Buntokapi's end had been contrived by one beyond reach; as his mother of the only Anasati grandson, Mara was exempt from reprisal. Yet the girl herself felt no victory. Wind gusted sharply, tearing at her robe. Mara shivered. She must never allow herself to regret. What had been done was past, and necessary; to think otherwise was to be troubled by worse than her husband's angry shade. If doubts, even uncertainty, were permitted to grow, she risked paralysing her ability to make decisions in the future. That would surely consign the Acoma to eventual obliteration at the hands of enemies, for the Game of the Council would go on. Regret must be banished, despite her momentary sorrow, and indecision must be forever kept at bay.

  For the second time in less than two years, Mara performed the ritual of mourning. Only now, instead of pain locked deep within, there was sadness. Sezu had taught that death was a part of politics, but now she understood that the forms were simply a rationale to justify murder. That awakening left her uneasy.

  Mara sought comfort in a silent prayer, addressed to the shade of her husband. Buntokapi, she thought, for whatever rest it will bring your spirit, at the last you died with dignity. For a moment, no matter how briefly, you were worthy of the name Lord of the Acoma. For that I honour you. May your journey around the Wheel bring you better reward in your next life.

  Now Mara rent her clothing, cut her arm, and placed ashes between her breasts. Ayaki stirred restlessly at her side, having tossed away the beads Nacoya had loaned to keep him occupied. Mara tore the baby's wrap and smudged ashes on his tiny chest. He looked down and made a face. Tough as his father, Ayaki would not cry when Mara pinched him; instead he stuck his lower lip out and scowled belligerently. With the ceremonial dagger Mara pricked the boy's forearm, earning a wail of protest to complete the ritual. She held Ayaki's arm over the pool, letting his blood mix with her own in the water.

  Tears came easily then. Alone and free from the scrutiny of hovering advisers and servants, Mara admitted her inner fear: that she was not equal to the next round of the Game of the Council. The humiliation and pain she had suffered at Buntokapi's hands, the doubt and the anguish as she plotted his downfall, and each danger endured to survive the murder of her father and brother -all these might still be as nothing, blown away b
y the winds of circumstance and political fortune. The Minwan-abi never slept in their hatred of the Acoma. Sometimes Mara felt helpless beyond hope.

  Seeking the stability of the practical, she dressed Ayaki in the tiny ceremonial gown left for him. Then she donned her own white robe, silenced her wailing son, and carried him through the gusty afternoon to the grove's entrance.

  The noise warned her first that visitors had arrived. Armour clanked in the yard, and the excited voice of a servant carried over the sigh of wind through leaves. Mara tightened her fingers around Ayaki's solid warmth, earning a wiggle of protest. Tense with apprehension, she stepped around the shielding hedges and almost collided with Keyoke's weaponed bulk. The old Force Commander had positioned himself squarely across the entrance, and by the keepers left loose on his buckles, Mara realized he had pulled his ceremonial armour on with the greatest haste. The visitors, then, would be significant.

  'Anasati?' she queried softly.

  Keyoke returned a terse nod. 'Papewaio and Nacoya await you, Lady. And Lujan oversees the arming of two companies at the barracks.'

  Mara frowned. Keyoke would hardly have mentioned such precautions if Tecuma had come with peaceful intentions; her fears were confirmed as the Force Commander deliberately raised a hand and scratched his chin with his thumb.

  Mara took a deep breath, ducking as Ayaki swung a playful fist. 'Lashima reward your foresight, Keyoke,' she murmured. And her pulse quickened as she stepped past the hedge, into view.

  The yard was jammed with an assemblage of courtiers, warriors, and servants, all dusty from travel by road and wearing armour that was serviceable and plain, not the fancy enamelled style worn on state visits. A loud patch of colour in his house colours and plumes of mourning, the Lord of the Anasati sat patiently upon his litter, his adviser Chumaka at his right hand. Silence fell as Mara approached, Nacoya and Papewaio falling into step one pace behind. The Anasati soldiers assumed formal poses and formation as the Lady of the Acoma bowed, as slightly as possible without giving offence to one of Tecuma's rank.

  'Welcome, father of my husband.'

  'Greetings, daughter,' he said bitterly. 'I see the son of my son in your arms. May I view him?'

  Mara felt a momentary pang of guilt. The presentation of a grandson should have been an occasion for joy, instead, in a moment tense with unspoken antagonism, Ayaki was passed into his grandfather's outstretched arms. Engulfed in scented cloth and the sharp edges of gemstone decorations, the infant squirmed but did not cry. Tecuma regarded this stolid little face and said, 'He looks like Bunto.'

  Mara nodded in agreement.

  After a long moment of cuddling the child, Tecuma returned him in cold silence. Mara immediately relinquished him to the custody of Nacoya, who settled him as she had the boy's mother, after a mourning ritual many years before.

  'Take my son to his nursery,' said the Lady of the Acoma. As the old nurse departed, Mara regarded the hostile face of her father-in-law. 'I offer the hospitality of the house.'

  'No, daughter.' Tecuma qualified the word, all tenderness gone with Ayaki. 'I wil not set foot in the house of my son's murderess.'

  Mara almost flinched. With great effort she managed an impassive reply. 'Your son took his own life, my Lord, to satisfy the demands of honour.'

  Tecuma bowed his head once, swiftly, in salute. 'I know, Mara. But I also knew my son. Despite his ineptness as a ruler, even he would never have contrived that insult to the Warlord and his own father. Only you could have brought such a thing to pass.' Something akin to respect coloured his manner for a brief instant. 'I salute your brilliance in the Game of the Council, Mara of the Acoma' - then his voice turned flint-hard - 'but for this one bloody victory you shall pay in kind.'

  Mara measured Tecuma and realized that grief and anger were making him say more than he might under normal circumstances. Inwardly she cautioned herself. 'My Lord, I merely obeyed my husband and Lord and repeated to you the commands he gave me, before witnesses.'

  Tecuma waved away the objection. 'Enough. It does not matter. My grandson inherits the mantle of the Acoma, and he shall ensure a loyal tie between my house and his.' At this a man stepped forward from the Anasati retinue, a thin, predatory fellow with shrewd eyes and a belt of enamelled caro hide. The Lord said, 'This is Nalgara, who shall act on my behalf until Ayaki is of age.'

  Mara was not caught off guard. 'My Lord, no.'

  Tecuma's eyes narrowed. 'I did not hear you say that.'

  Mara resisted showing weakness by offering justification. 'You will take this man with you when you leave.'

  Armour rattled among the Anasati warriors as hands reached for weapons, and Tecuma's arm trembled, ready to signal an attack. 'Woman, you dare?'

  Hoping that Lujan had had time to arm her own companies, Mara held her ground. 'No, my Lord. I demand.'

  Tecuma abandoned his pretence of politeness. 'I shall decide how Ayaki's legacy is to be managed. I am Lord of the Anasati.'

  'But these are Acoma lands,' Mara interrupted, her voice ringing with an anger all her own. 'My Lord of the Anasati seems to forget that his son was Lord of the Acoma. And the Acoma have never been, are not now, and shall never be vassals to the Anasati. Your grandson is now heir to the title of Lord. As his mother, I am again Ruling Lady of the Acoma until the day he comes of age.'

  Tecuma's face twisted with suppressed rage. 'Woman, do not seek to anger me!'

  'It appears my Lord is already angry, so that what I say could have little consequence.' Stalling for time, Mara searched for a glimpse of green between the weaponed ranks of the Anasati guard. But the retinue pressed too closely together to allow any view of Lujan's men. She had no choice but to continue. 'When Bunto assumed Acoma Lordship, he ceased to have any obligations to you save those he freely chose, as you must have known, Tecuma, for your son could not swear oath before the Acoma natami until you released him from fealty. Show me a document, any document, appointing you as guardian for Ayaki in the event of Bunto's death and denying me my right to inherit. Then I will step aside. But without lawful evidence, you are not ruler of the Acoma.'

  The slightest twitch of Tecuma's lips revealed a frustration he dared not express.

  Mara hastened to drive home her point, before the confrontation turned to violence. 'We are not of the same clan, so you have no call upon the Acoma. You don't even have a political claim on our loyalty. Bunto never sought to change our alliances, so the Acoma are still members of the Jade Eye Party, not the Imperial. You have no authority here, Tecuma.' She motioned with her hand then, on faith, and to her immense relief Lujan and three dozen Acoma soldiers stepped forward, ready to defend their mistress. To the rear of Tecuma's partf, another fifty soldiers had gathered in battle armour, ready for instant action should there be cause. Mara finished with a smile of irony. 'Once again I rule the Acoma, until Ayaki is twenty-five years of age.'

  The Lord of the Anasati prepared to speak, but his adviser, Chumaka, intervened. 'My Lord, she is correct. Such is the law.'

  Balked, Tecuma paused a long minute, his eyes distant with calculation. 'Then what of the boy if you die?'

  In even tones Mara said, 'Then Ayaki is ruler of the Acoma, as I was before the age of twenty-five, ready or not.'

  Tecuma made a subtle gesture, indicating that Mara was once again a woman alone against enemies. 'The boy will surely die.'

  But the threat failed to move the young Lady, who stood defiantly straight. 'At the hands of the Lord of the Minwanabi, or some other seeking to rise over Acoma bodies, perhaps.'

  Tecuma conceded defeat. 'Very well, daughter. You have made your point. I shall endeavour to keep you alive, at least until Ayaki comes to his majority. But if you make any move that I judge a menace to the Anasati -'

  'Do not threaten me in my own house, father of my husband,' Mara warned. 'I could end this here and now.' She pointed to Lujan and the soldiers who waited ready to answer their mistress's command. The odds against Tecuma were now overwhelming, with
only a score of soldiers to protect him against the possibility of attack by two companies. Were he to press the issue, he could die very quickly.

  Mara regarded the stiff features of her father-in-law. 'I have no wish to be at odds with you, Tecuma. Your differences with my father were strictly political.' With a sigh more eloquent than words, she shook her head. 'We both know that what I have done was also a matter of politics.

  'Should you die here . . . Jingu of the Minwanabi would be without any real rival in the game. No, I do not ask you to be my ally. I just wish you not to be my foe.'

  The fist Tecuma had raised to signal his soldiers relaxed and lowered. He regarded Mara keenly. 'Minwanabi . . . yes. Already he thinks himself powerful enough to move against me.' The Lord of the Anasati sighed, at last acknowledging the quiet strength in Mara's stance. 'Perhaps you can make some difference.' He shook his head. 'I underestimated you. Perhaps Jingu will do likewise.'

  After a silent minute he bowed to take his leave. 'Very well, Mara. You have my word on this, then; so long as Ayaki lives, I will not oppose you when you seek to discomfort the Minwanabi. But I make no such assurances where Anasati interests are concerned. We still have many differences. But once my grandson inherits the mantle of the Acoma, Lady, you shall find my memory is long. Should any harm befall him before then, from that instant your life will be measured in minutes.'