Mistress of the Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  Mara laughed. 'Thrash the children as they deserve, and let the ladies swoon all they wish. It might serve to harden them.'

  'Oh!' The Lady paled. As angry now as her daughter, she retorted, 'Our Light of Heaven would not dare! He is a gentle man, and his wives all adore him.'

  Ichindar's mouth curved with distaste. Plainly, he would withdraw rather than endure further disharmony. Women confounded him, Mara knew. Saddened that he seemed so browbeaten, and also given insight into how it must feel to have been forced into matrimonial duty at the age of twelve, with a different wife or concubine sent to share the imperial bed each and every month thereafter, she again intervened.

  Justin completed his apology to Jehilia. He spoke his words without sullenness or rancor, as quick to forgive as his barbarian father. When he completed his bow, Mara caught the girl's icy fingers and bundled her firmly toward her distraught and angry mother. 'Jehilia,' said the Lady of the Acoma, 'take Lady Tamara inside and see her in care of a good maid. Then change your clothes, and come visit me in my garden court. I will show you, as my brother showed me, what to do when importunate boys try to trip you.'

  Jehilia's fury dissolved into delighted surprise. 'You know how to wrestle, Good Servant?'

  Mara laughed. 'I'll teach you, and if Justin agrees to keep you clear of fish pools, he will help.'

  At her side, the heir to the Acoma mantle gave a whoop of contentment, and Jehilia, no less restrained, shouted like a warrior. Then she spun in a whirl of wet hair and chivvied her distraught and protesting mother from the garden, while Ichindar stared after in astonishment.

  He turned toward Mara with a look of mystified respect. 'I should command your presence more often, to marshal the conduct of my harem.'

  Mara's smile died. 'Great gods, no. Do you know nothing of women? The best way to foment dissension among them is to give them into the power of another female. I'd find myself marshal of a nasty, robe-tearing rebellion, my Lord Emperor. And the only problem I can see between your august self and your harem is that they outnumber you, five hundred and thirty-seven to one.'

  The Emperor of all Tsuranuanni laughed. 'True enough. I am the most jigahen-pecked husband in all of the Nations. If the ladies were not all so beautiful, I might find it easier to chastise them.'

  Mara made a sound through her nose. 'According to my Force Commander, who cuts a swathe through the maidens in his leave time, the prettier the face, the greater the need for chastisement.'

  'Perhaps,' Ichindar allowed, a trace of wistfulness in his voice. 'If I knew them better, I might be more inclined. Only those who bear me a child remain, you must remember. Of those five hundred . . . however many wives and consorts, I've spoken to only seven on more than a handful of occasions.' His troubled tone was not lost on Mara. Palace walls were no protection from the gossip of the streets: even the Light of Heaven had heard the whispers of his lack of manly power in fathering a son. Though almost twenty years a husband, he had but seven children, all girls, the eldest only two years older than Justin. Ichindar gestured toward the coolness of the foyer. 'Refreshments await, my Lady Mara. In your condition, it would be insult to keep you on your feet in the sun for an instant longer.'

  A haze of smoke from the funeral rites hung heavy upon the air. The acrid scent of ash stung Hokanu's nostrils where he stood, elbow braced on the rail of a gallery that overlooked a courtyard filled with guests. After the opulent gardens of the Acoma estate and the imperial residence, the Shinzawai garden looked tiny. Guests moved along the crowded narrow paths, speaking in low voices, partaking of light refreshments provided by servants at every turn. With Kamatsu's rank and honor, many had come who had no clan or family ties with him, straining the hospitality of the house. The ceremony to honor the Shinzawai departed had been rushed, owing to the heat; the body of the patriarch had been kept waiting only until the arrival of the heir. Many of the guests had reached the estates ahead of him; those more polite or less brazenly curious had waited to come until after Hokanu was in residence.

  Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the smoke that coiled still from the fire. The recitation of Kamatsu's honors had been long, lasting well past noon. Now the ashes were yet too hot to scrape into the ceremonial urn Hokanu would carry to the sacred contemplation grove that sheltered the family natami. The air smelled of citrus and cloves and almonds, to sweeten the stench of death and of other, rarer scents, of the ladies' perfumes and the sweet oils used to sleek the hair of the dandies. Now and again the breeze would part the smoke, and the scents of the flowers bundled in the crockery pots throughout the dooryard won out. Fainter was the ink-like pungence of the dyes in the crimson death hangings. Sometimes there came the redolence of cooked meats, new bread, and cakes. The kitchen staff were busy.

  Hokanu lounged in his red robes, his eyes half closed; he could have been a man lost in daydreams, except for the fist clenched white against the balustrade. Below him, conversations centered on political topics. Two subjects predominated: the eligibility of the bachelors who vied for the ten-year-old Princess Jehilia's hand; and which Lord was most likely to be appointed by the Light of Heaven to take up the staff of office left vacant by Kamatsu's death.

  The avaricious carrion eaters might have waited until the old man's ashes were cold, Hokanu thought with resentment.

  A step sounded upon the worn plank floor behind him. His back tautened in expectation of another servant who would address him as 'my Lord'; but the title was not forthcoming. Touched by vague dread, Hokanu half turned, his hand closed in reflex over the heirloom metal sword he wore to honor the day, and with which he had cut the red cords around his father's wrists, in the ceremony to free the spirit into the halls of Turakamu.

  But he faced no assassin. A man of medium stature awaited him, robed anonymously in dark fabric.

  Hokanu released the silk-wrapped hilt of the weapon with guilty speed. 'I'm sorry. Great One, I heard no chime to warn of your presence.'

  'I did not come by arcane means,' said the magician in his deep, familiar voice. He pushed back his hood, and sunlight flooded over features that were lined and, today, looked almost bitter. The line of his cheek and brow bore a marked resemblance to Hokanu; and if the mystery in them had been less, the eyes would have been almost identical. The Great One, whose name was Fumita, crossed the space to the gallery rail and gave Hokanu a formal embrace.

  By blood, the two were father and son; but according to the strictures of the Assembly, ties of blood could not matter.

  Cautious of the weariness in the older man's face, Hokanu whispered, 'You should not be here.' Conflicting emotions, barely contained, raged within the warrior. His father had come late to his powers, a rare but not unheard-of event. As a man in his prime, he had left his wife and young son to don the black robe. Hokanu's early memories of Fumita were few but vivid: the roughness of his cheek in the evening as a young boy threw his arms around his father's neck, the smell of sweat as he removed the armor worn in the soldier's yard. The younger brother of the Lord of the Shinzawai, Fumita had been marked as the future Shinzawai Force Commander until the day when the magicians had taken him away. Hokanu remembered with pain how his mother had never laughed again.

  Fumita's peaked brows twitched, a frown suppressed.

  'A Great One may go anywhere, at any time.' And the dead man was his brother; power had separated them, and mystery had kept them apart. Of the wife who had given up name and rank to enter a convent, the magician never spoke. He looked into the features of the son he could no longer acknowledge, and his silken robe that the breezes fluttered without effort seemed to drag at his stiffened shoulders.

  He did not speak.

  Hokanu, whose gifts of perception at times skirted the edge of arcane talent, spoke for him. 'If I intend to endorse my father's policies, and stand at the hand of the Emperor, I must announce my intentions plainly, and soon. Then the enemies who might otherwise ally against the Light of Heaven must show themselves to me, as his shield.' He g
ave a short, humorless laugh. 'As if it matters. If I stand down, and let the honor of the Imperial Chancellorship be awarded to a rival house, the enemies will strike next at my wife, who carries the heir to our name.'

  Coarse laughter lifted over the buzz of general conversation. A servant passed the screen that led to the gallery; he saw the young Lord in conference there with a magician, bowed, and silently left. Preternaturally sensitive to the scents, his surroundings, and the grief for his adoptive father that left every nerve end raw, Hokanu heard a cousin call out loudly in argument. By the slurred consonants, Devacai had wasted no time in sampling the wines. Small need to speculate what would happen to Shinzawai honor and fortunes were that distant branch of the family to inherit.

  Somewhere deep in the estate house, a maid giggled, and an infant cried. Life went on. And by the intentness of Fumita's gaze, he had not come just to honor the funeral pyre of a departed brother.

  'It isn't pleasant, I see, but you have something to tell?' Hokanu said, his throat made tight with the effort it took to find the courage to broach the subject first.

  Fumita looked troubled, a dire sign. Even before his donning the black robe, he was normally master of his expression, which had made him a wicked opponent at cards. He twisted his thumbs in his cord belt, and sat, perched awkwardly on a flower urn. Blossoms crushed beneath his weight, lending the thick scent of greens to the sultry, smoke-tinged air. 'I bring you warning, consort of the Good Servant.'

  The choice of title told much. Hokanu longed to sit also, but sap stains on his mourning robes might be interpreted as a sign of weakness, as if he had forgotten himself, or been overcome with prostration. He stood, his feet hurting with the strain. 'The Assembly is troubled over my wife?' he prompted.

  The silence stretched out, broken by the voices of the guests, raised now, as the wine heated their conversations. At length, not looking at Hokanu, but at the boards, as if they might harbor unseen flaws, Fumita spoke carefully. 'Heed these things. First, the Assembly is as any other body of men when trying to forge an agreement. They argue, they deliberate, they splinter into factions. No one wishes to be first to suggest the ill luck of compromising the life of a Servant of the Empire.'

  Hokanu sucked a fast breath. 'They know about Mara's toy maker.'

  'And Jiro's ventures in experimental engineering.' Fumita looked up, piercingly. 'There is little in the Nations my kind do not know. If they equivocate, it is because they cannot agree upon any one course of action. But provocation of any sort will unite them. Fear that.'

  The smokes and the scents seemed cloying enough to drown in. Hokanu held the Great One's gaze, and behind stiff features read anguish. 'I hear. What else?'

  Fumita blinked. 'You will recall that a former member of the Assembly, the barbarian Great One Milamber, once visited great destruction upon the Imperial Games.'

  Hokanu nodded. He had not been present, but Mara had, and Lujan. Their descriptions of the event were the stuff of nightmares, and nobody who had seen the tumbled stone, the scorched timbers where fires had fallen from the sky, and the riven buildings from the inner precinct to the dockside quarter where earthquakes had shaken the Holy City had forgotten.

  'No Great One has the powers of Milamber. Most have far less. Some are more scholars than spell crafters.' Fumita fell silent, his eyes expectant.

  Hokanu caught the cue, and added the telling surmise. 'Some are argumentative, petty, and perhaps too embroiled in self-importance to act decisively?'

  'If it comes to trouble,' Fumita said slowly, 'you were the one who said this. Never I.' Very softly, he added, 'The best you can hope for is a delay of the felling blow. Those who wish an end to these changes in tradition are growing stronger. Forcing debate will buy time, but none of us who would aid you may stay the hand of another.' He fixed his former son with a gaze that held unvoiced feelings. 'No matter what, I cannot protect you.'

  Hokanu nodded.

  'Say farewell to my brother Kamatsu in my stead,' the magician finished. 'He was joy and strength and wisdom, and his memory remains my inspiration. Rule wisely and well. He often told me he was proud of you.' He withdrew a small metal object from his robe and thumbed a switch.

  A low-pitched, unnatural buzz sawed across the murmur of conversation, and Hokanu was left alone on the gallery above a courtyard that seethed with relations and guests; among them were enemies, seeking weakness to exploit, or strengths, for the means to undermine. Such was the way of the Game of the Council. Only the newest Lord of the Shinzawai thought, as he gazed through the haze at their finery, that never before had the stakes been so high. This time the prize, the bone of contention, was the Empire of Tsuranuanni itself.

  The last, most private rite for the departed Shinzawai Patriarch was completed at dusk as a low ground mist settled over the contemplation glade. The new Ruling Lord lingered in the sanctity of his family's sacred grove, soothed by the deepening shadows, and by the chance to be alone.

  The shadows spilled long and purple between the fruit-laden trees of autumn. Hokanu chose a stone bench and sat down, but the heat still oppressed. No breeze came to cool him, and ash from the burning drifted still in the air, describing shafts through the foliage where the sun struck through. Hokanu fingered the raveled edges of the garment he had rent for Kamatsu's ceremonial farewell. His hands closed, hard, bunching the fabric. He had an estate filled with guests that he should be thinking of; it felt selfish to steal a moment of peace for himself.

  But the stillness of the contemplation glade, and the lazy drone of the insects that fed upon windfall fruit, allowed him space to think. Fumita's warning had not been only for Mara, her consort perceived. Hokanu's brows drew together. The magician's spare words had been for the Shinzawai, and the son who now wore the Lord's mantle. When he had said, 'I cannot protect you,' the 'you' was not plural but singular.

  For if, as Lord of the Shinzawai, Hokanu chose aggression against the Anasati on Mara's behalf, the Assembly of Magicians would have no choice but to act — because he was Mara's consort; not her Ruling Lord, but half Acoma in heart, if not in name. He was not Servant of the Empire. He did not have Mara's rank and honors as his shield.

  No, the core of Fumita's warning had not been for his Lady. It had been for himself, a caution against trying the patience of an assembly divided in opinion over issues that had no precedents.

  Hokanu understood with a flash of cold sweat that he must at all costs keep the Shinzawai clear of the feud with Lord Jiro. He saw, with the family's talent for perception, just what Fumita had left unsaid. That he was now Lord of one of the most powerful houses in the Empire and, while not officially Clan Warchief, would inherit the leadership of Clan Kanazawai at the next Council. If, through ties of marriage, Shinzawai and Acoma forces were seen to unite in common cause, leading Clan Kanazawai and Clan Hadama, no counterforce in the Nations could stop them. The fragmented Assembly would end their contention, forced by most desperate circumstances to act.

  That reason must never be given, or Acoma and Shinzawai would both be ground down into the dust, never to rise, never to recover. Hokanu had seen the death of two hundred warriors, followed by the annihilation of an honored house, all at the hands of one magician. Hundreds of them, united, no army in the Empire could oppose.

  Hokanu arose to leave. The sacred grove of Shinzawai no longer seemed a haven of peace, and the sweat on his skin gave him chills. The place at his side where Mara might have stood felt colder and emptier still.

  13

  Twist

  Arakasi waited.

  Below him, the sentry moved silently, upon feet clad in padded stockings designed for stealth. He wore the traditional short black robe and trousers of the Hamoi Tong assassins, and his head covering masked all but his eyes. Across his back a short bow was slung, and at his belt a hip quiver of arrows and a variety of hand weapons were hooked within easy reach. He moved beneath the tree where the Spy Master perched, barely breathing, and vanished into the dusk like
a shade of the dead. Arakasi counted in his mind, his numbers a complex formula he had devised over years, that fixed an exact passage of time, independent of breathing, heart rate, or any other condition that might influence the count. Practice with sand-filled hourglasses had perfected his system to a fine point. When he reached the number that signified ten seconds, his searching eyes caught a movement at the far end of the trail. He knew satisfaction heady as triumph. The second sentry had arrived exactly as anticipated.

  The most perilous task he had ever undertaken was off to an auspicious start. Arakasi held no illusions that such luck would long continue; he was one man alone, and in a position where even the favor of heaven could not safeguard a man's life. Arakasi lay motionless on a tree branch in the garden of the Hamoi Tong's Obajan. Below him paced a guard who would kill him without hesitation. Like his predecessor, this new sentry scouted grass, paths, and bushes for the telltale signs of an intruder. The Spy Master had left no tracks; yet he sweated. The guards were uncannily thorough. The second assassin moved along his beat. Counting for a specific interval, Arakasi judged his moment, then noiselessly lowered himself from tree to ground. Taking care to step only on the flat, ornamental stones between flower beds, he scurried off to a small depression within a drainage ditch where he had secreted his few belongings. There, behind a masking of khadi brush, just beyond the limit of the Hamoi Tong sentries' line of patrol, he breathed deeply and settled taut nerves.

  At the edge of the woods a hundred paces west, his own backup man waited, knife already in hand to answer unwelcome discovery. Arakasi lifted a stripped branch and used gestures to indicate that the patrol was moving according to schedule. The garden he sought to infiltrate was protected by eighteen assassins, all alert, cautious sentries, but human enough to be fallible. The guard pattern they followed was complex and at first appearance seemingly random. But few observers had Arakasi's icy patience, or his keen fascination with mathematics. He had thought nothing of the days spent crouched in dirt, bitten by insects, and lashed by sun and rain. What mattered was that he had unraveled their measure, and worked up formulas to predict their routes.