The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  The Lord of the Ekamchi gasped in astonishment. Then his plump cheeks quivered from outrage. ‘Wrath of the gods!’ he swore as the tall warrior towered over him. ‘You ignorant oaf, do you think you can handle me without penalty?’

  Behind him, his own bodyguard rattled weapons, but they could not strike past their master’s fat bulk to reach Papewaio.

  To all this bluster the Strike Leader of the Acoma returned a bland indifference. ‘If you trouble my Lady any more, I will do more than handle you,’ he warned. ‘I will handle you with violence!’

  Ekamchi spluttered. His guards half drew their swords, restrained only by the fact that Papewaio could harm their master long before they could move.

  ‘Step aside,’ said Mara clearly to the Lord who blocked the passage. ‘Even you would not dare to mar the Warlord’s birthday celebration with bloodshed, Techachi of the Ekamchi.’

  The fat Lord reddened further. ‘For a servant to lay hands on a man of my rank carries a death sentence,’ he carped.

  ‘I see,’ said Mara, nodding sagely.

  Papewaio raised his helmet, revealing the black rag of shame already tied to his brow. He smiled.

  The Lord of the Ekamchi paled and stepped aside, mumbling a hasty excuse. He could not demand the execution of a man already condemned; and if he ordered his guards to attack, he only granted the wretch an honourable death by the blade. Caught in his quandary, and hating Mara the more for it, he stalked back into the banquet.

  ‘Hurry along, old mother,’ Mara whispered to Nacoya. ‘The corridors are not safe for us.’

  ‘Do you think our suite is any less of a trap?’ the old woman returned, but she hastened her steps according to her mistress’s wishes.

  Yet as Mara had guessed, privacy and quiet did much to restore Nacoya’s wits. Changed into more comfortable lounging robes, and seated upon cushions, the old woman began dryly to instruct her mistress in the ways of survival in a hostile court.

  ‘You must set lamps outside, opposite each of the screens,’ she insisted. ‘This way, an assassin trying to enter will throw a shadow against the paper, and you will see him coming. Also, lights inside should be placed between you and the windows, so that your own form will not show up as a silhouette to anyone lurking outside.’

  Mara nodded, wisely allowing Nacoya to ramble on. The tricks with the lamps she had learned from Lano, and upon entering her suite she had detailed one of her maids to arrange things accordingly. Soon she and the old woman sat bathed in light, the stolid bulk of Papewaio on guard at the entrance.

  With nothing else to distract her, Mara felt the pressure of her own concerns. She confided those worries to her First Adviser. ‘Nacoya, what of the fifty warriors stationed at the barracks? The Minwanabi oath of surety does not include our retinue and I fear their lives may be threatened.’

  ‘I think not.’ The old woman’s confidence was unexpected after her day-long siege of insecurity.

  Mara restrained the urge to be angry. ‘But to kill them would be so easy to arrange. A false claim that a plague of summer fever had broken out in the barracks – on even a suspicion of disease, the bodies would be burned. No man could prove how our soldiers had died …’

  Nacoya touched Mara’s wrists. ‘You fret for the wrong causes, Mara-anni. Minwanabi will not trouble himself with the lives of your warriors. Mistress, all he has to do is strike you and Ayaki down, and every man who wears Acoma green will become a grey warrior, masterless and cursed by the gods. That fate would suit Jingu’s tastes better, I am thinking.’

  Here the First Adviser paused. She sought her mistress’s eyes but found them closed. ‘Mara, listen to me. Other dangers await, like relli coiled in the darkness. You must be aware of Teani.’ Nacoya sat straighter, as yet showing no inclination to retire. ‘I observed her all day, and she watched you tirelessly while your back was turned.’

  But Mara was too weary to remain alert. Propped on one elbow in the cushions, she let her mind drift without discipline. Nacoya regarded her with ancient eyes and knew the girl had reached the limits of her endurance. She must not be permitted to sleep, for if an assassin struck she must be ready to snuff out the lamp and retire quickly to the corner Papewaio had designated for emergencies, so that he would not inadvertently strike the wrong mark with his sword.

  ‘Did you heed?’ Nacoya asked sharply.

  ‘Yes, mother of my heart.’ But with the Warlord himself finding amusement in the Acoma predicament, Teani was the least of Mara’s worries. Or so she thought, as the light threw shadows like death over the carry boxes that held her gowns and jewellery. How would Lano or her father, Lord Sezu, have handled the Acoma honour in this situation? Mara frowned, trying to guess how those who had died at the hand of Minwanabi treachery might have advised her to act. But no voices answered. In the end she had only her wits.

  That conclusion haunted her into a fitful sleep. Though instinct warned against rest, she looked too much like a thin, tired child. Nacoya, who had raised her from infancy, could no longer bear to badger her. Instead, she arose from the cushions and delved into the clothing in the carry boxes.

  Mara was deeply asleep by the time the old woman returned, her hands draped with a gauzy collection of silk scarves. These she arranged near the lamp by the sleeping mats, one last-ditch preparation before she herself succumbed to exhaustion. What would be would be. Two women, two maids, and one overburdened warrior were no match for the entire household of the Minwanabi. Nacoya hoped only the attack would come soon, that Papewaio might retain awareness enough to fight back.

  But the night wore on without incident. The old nurse nodded and slept while the warrior on guard beyond the screen struggled against a numbing haze of exhaustion. Overtired nerves caused him to see movement in the garden, odd shapes suggesting lurking dangers. He blinked, and over and over again the shapes resolved into a bush or tree, or simply a shadow moving as the copper face of the moon dimmed and brightened behind a cloud. Sometimes Papewaio dozed, only to snap erect at the slightest suggestion of a sound. Yet the attack, when it came, caught him napping.

  Mara jerked awake, sweating, confused, and uncertain of her surroundings. ‘Cala?’ she murmured, naming the maid who normally attended her at home.

  Then a terrible tearing of paper and the sound of snapping wood jabbed her fully alert. Bodies struck the tiles not far from her cushions, followed by a man’s grunt of pain.

  Mara rolled out of her cushions, banging against Nacoya in the process. The old woman woke with a shrill scream of terror, and while Mara fumbled in the darkness to seek the safe corner Papewaio had prepared, Nacoya delayed. Her hands raked up the scarves and tossed them in panic over the lamp. Fire bloomed like a flower, blazing and banishing the dark. Mara blundered to a halt, her shins bruised against an unfamiliar side table. Horrible, coarse gasps sounded in the darkness beyond the torn screen.

  Crying now, and praying for Lashima’s guidance, Mara squinted through the conflagration around the lamp. She saw Nacoya lift a cushion and sweep the whole into the damaged screen, igniting the torn paper.

  Flames leaped up, shedding golden light over the twisted features of a stranger, flung full length across the threshold with his arms locked in struggle with Papewaio. The Acoma First Strike Leader sat astride the man, hands clutching his throat. The combatants seemed a match in size and strength, but few could equal Papewaio’s fury in battle. Each man sought to choke the other. Papewaio’s face was a red mask of agony, matching his opponent’s. Then Mara gasped. Horrified, she noticed the dagger stuck through the armhole of Papewaio’s armour.

  But even though he was wounded. Papewaio’s strength was great. The fingers gripping his throat weakened and slipped. With a final jerk he brought the assassin’s head up, then pulled with both hands, snapping bones with an audible crack. Limp arms fell from Papewaio’s throat and the body convulsed. Papewaio released his grip, and the corpse fell to the floor, the neck twisted at a terrible angle. Dim shadows moved in the court
yard beyond. Nacoya did not wait to identify them but raised her voice in the loudest scream she could muster.

  ‘Fire! Awake! Awake! There is fire in the house!’

  Mara caught her idea and repeated the cry. In the droughts of summer, a Tsurani estate house might burn to the ground as a result of a mishandled lamp. And the flames Nacoya had started already chewed hungrily at the framing that supported the roof tiles. Minwanabi, his servants, and his guests must all respect the threat of fire. They would come, but all too likely too late to matter.

  As the light brightened, Mara saw Papewaio cast around for his sword. He glanced over his shoulder and moved out of sight, reaching for something. Sounds followed that froze Mara to the heart: the smack of a blade cutting flesh and a grunt of pain. She rushed forward, calling for Papewaio. Guided by a glint of green armour, she saw her honour guard twist and fall heavily. Beyond him the plumes of a Minwanabi officer flared orange in the glow. Strike Leader Shimizu straightened with a bloodied sword, and in his eyes Mara read murder.

  Yet she did not flee. Beyond, lights bloomed in the windows. Screens slid back, and robed figures ran forth, wakened by Nacoya’s cry of fire.

  Saved by the presence of witnesses, Mara confronted Papewaio’s killer. ‘Would you murder me before the eyes of all the guests and condemn your lawful Lord to death?’

  Shimizu glanced quickly to either side and saw the running figures who converged across the courtyard. Flames ripped rapidly up the roof line, and Nacoya’s cries were joined by a chorus of others. The alarm was spreading rapidly through the estate house, and soon every able man would appear upon the scene with buckets.

  The chance to kill Mara was lost. Shimizu might love Teani, but a warrior’s code would never value a courtesan above honour. He bowed and sheathed his fouled blade. ‘Lady, I just aided your honour guard in dispatching a thief. That he died at his duty is the will of the gods. Now you must flee the fire!’

  ‘Thief?’ Mara all but choked on the word; at her feet, Papewaio lay sprawled with a black-handled dagger in his shoulder. That thrust could never have killed him, but the gaping wound through his heart surely had.

  The first, shouting guests reached the scene of the fire, and taking no further notice of Mara, the Minwanabi Strike Leader called orders to clear the halls. Already the flames reached the corner supports, and fumes boiled white from the varnish, filling the air with an acrid odour.

  Through the guests pushed Nacoya, clutching a few belongings as the two whimpering maids hauled the biggest box out of harm’s way. ‘Come, child.’ Nacoya caught her mistress’s sleeve, trying to pull her down the hall to safety.

  Tears and smoke stung Mara’s eyes. She resisted Nacoya’s efforts, motioning for the Minwanabi servants who arrived to assist. Nacoya indulged in a rare blasphemy, but her mistress refused to move. Two servants took the carry box from the struggling maids. Others raced to gather the rest of Mara’s property from the rapidly spreading flames. Two burly workers took Nacoya by the arm and led her out of danger.

  Shimizu caught at Mara’s robe. ‘You must come, Lady. The walls will soon fall.’ Already the heat of the blaze was becoming unbearable.

  The bucket bearers began their job. Water hissed onto flaming timbers, but on the opposite side of the room from the place where the dead thief lay. His clothing had begun to blaze, eradicating any evidence of treachery he might have provided. Dully Mara responded to necessity. ‘I will not leave until the body of my Strike Leader has been carried from the field.’

  Shimizu nodded. Without emotion he bent and shouldered the corpse of the warrior he had just run through with a sword.

  Mara followed through halls choking with smoke as a murderer bore brave Papewaio’s body to the coolness of the night. She stumbled past servants who struggled with slopping buckets to battle the blaze, lest their master’s estate house become totally engulfed. Mara implored the gods to let it burn, let it all burn, so that Jingu might know a tenth part of the loss she felt at Pape’s death.

  She might have wept then for the loss of a loyal friend; but amid a cluster of sleep-rumpled guests Jingu of the Minwanabi awaited, his eyes bright with the joy of victory.

  Shimizu deposited Papewaio’s body on the cool grass and said, ‘Master, a thief – one of your servants – sought to use the confusion of new guests in the house to cover his escape. I found him dead at the hands of the Lady of the Acoma’s honour guard, but that brave warrior was also slain in turn. I found this on the dead man.’ Shimizu gave over a necklace of no particular beauty but fashioned from costly metal.

  Jingu nodded. ‘This belongs to my wife. The culprit must be a house servant who pilfered our quarters while we dined.’ With an evil grin, he turned to face Mara. ‘It is a pity that such a worthy warrior had to give his life to protect a trinket.’

  No evidence or witness existed to refute such obvious lies. Mara’s wits returned like a cold rush of wind. Before Jingu of the Minwanabi she bowed with icy poise. ‘My Lord, it is true that my Strike Leader Papewaio died bravely, defending the wealth of your wife from a thief.’

  Taking her agreement for capitulation, and a salute to his superiority in the game, the Lord of the Minwanabi expansively offered commiseration. ‘Lady, your Strike Leader’s valour in behalf of my house shall not be unremarked. Let all present know that he conducted himself with highest honour.’

  Mara returned a level stare. ‘Then honour Papewaio’s spirit as he deserves. Grant his memory due ceremony and provide him a funeral in proportion to his sacrifice.’

  The shouts of the bucket brigade filled an interval as Jingu considered refusing Mara’s request. But then he noticed the Warlord grinning at him through an opened screen across the courtyard.

  Almecho was aware that Papewaio’s death had been murder; but the contrived excuses did not upset protocol, such nuances amused him hugely, and since Mara had not cried for mercy, or otherwise flinched from the brutalities inherent in the Great Game, she was due this recompense from her enemy. Almecho called out to Jingu in a show of camaraderie, ‘My Lord host, your wife’s metal jewellery is worth many times the cost of such a rite. Give the Acoma man his funeral, for the gods’ sake, Jingu. His death leaves you a debt of honour. And since he lost his life at my birthday celebration, twenty of my own Imperial Whites shall stand in salute around the pyre.’

  Jingu returned a deferential nod to Almecho, but his eyes showed cold annoyance in the light of the flames that still burned through one of his finer suites. ‘Hail to Papewaio,’ he conceded to Mara. ‘Tomorrow I shall honour his shade with a funeral.’

  Mara bowed and retired to Nacoya’s side. Supported by her maids, she watched Shimizu retrieve the limp form of Papewaio and toss him indifferently to the strangers who would prepare him for his funeral. Tears threatened her composure. Survival did not seem possible without Pape. The hands dragging lifelessly across the damp grass had guarded her cradle when she was first born; they had steadied some of her first steps and defended her from murder in the sacred grove. The fact that the Lord of the Minwanabi was now obliged to pay for an extravagant ceremony to honour the warrior of an enemy house seemed a hollow victory, and meaningless. No more would the flamboyant red shirt with its tassels and embroidery bother anyone’s eyes on festival days; and right now that loss seemed more important than any power gained in the Game of the Council.

  • Chapter Sixteen •

  Funeral

  The drums boomed.

  The guests of Jingu of the Minwanabi gathered in the main foyer of the estate house for Papewaio’s funeral. Foremost among them, and veiled in red in deference to the God of Death, Mara of the Acoma led her temporary honour guard, one of the Warlord’s Imperial Whites. The drumbeat deepened, the sign for the procession to begin. Mara held a frond of ke reed in her hands, the raising of which would signal the marchers forward. Now was the time. Yet she closed her eyes, hesitant.

  Weariness and grief left an ache inside that no ceremony would assuage. The A
coma were warriors, and Papewaio had given his life to serve his mistress, earning him an honourable death, but Mara still ached for him.

  The drums boomed again, insistent. Mara lifted the scarlet reed. Feeling more alone than ever before in her life, she led the procession through the wide doorway to honour the shade of Papewaio, First Strike Leader of the Acoma. Jingu of the Minwanabi and the Warlord came after her, followed by the most powerful families of the Empire. They moved without speaking into a daylight turned gloomy with clouds. Mara’s steps were heavy, her feet reluctant to continue, yet each time the drum beat, she managed another stride. She had slept safely the night before in the Warlord’s suite; but her rest had been the drugged sleep of total fatigue, and she had not awakened refreshed.

  A rare storm had blown in from the north, bringing misting rain. Low-hanging tendrils of fog curled across the surface of the lake, stone-grey in the subdued light. The damp made the air chill after weeks of arid heat, and Mara shivered. The earth under her sandals seemed dank as death itself. She thanked the Goddess of Wisdom that Nacoya had not insisted upon attending the funeral ceremony. By agreement with her mistress, the old woman had pleaded illness from the smoke and the sorrow of the last night’s events; for the moment she lay safe on her mat in the suite of the Warlord, Almecho.

  Mara led the procession down the gentle slope to the lakeside, grateful that only her own safety should concern her; for the guests who walked in pairs behind her were edgy, unpredictable as caged beasts. Not one of them believed the fiction that a servant had stolen the jewels of the Lady of the Minwanabi. No one had been impolite enough to point out that Shimizu had the alleged booty in his possession while the thief’s body was consumed by fire before anyone could reach him. The possibility that Jingu had violated his pledged oath of guest safety could not be questioned without proof. Hereafter Mara and her retinue might not be the only targets for such plotting; no Lord present dared relax for the remainder of the gathering, for a few among them might react to the uncertainty in the atmosphere and strike at enemies of their own.