The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  Kevin returned his familiar wry grin. Then he raised his eyes toward heaven in a show of mock appeal. ‘Pray to your gods to give me the strength,’ he murmured. Then he slipped off his shirt and his drawers, and joined her.

  Later, when the lamps burned low, Mara lay awake in the clasp of Kevin’s arms and reflected upon the joy she had found in the midst of so many worries. She reached out and smoothed back her lover’s tousled hair. She regarded the punctures traced across his shoulder by the sharpened thorns of the kekali; the wounds were slight, already scabbed over. Only then did Mara appreciate the bittersweet nature of the love that had overtaken her at last.

  Kevin was, and always would be, a slave. There were certain unarguable absolutes in her culture, and that fact was one.

  Caught up in a moment of melancholy, and frowning at the waning moon through the screen, Mara wondered whether the bad luck that had brought down her brother and father might not stalk her yet. Desperately she prayed to Lashima that the blood from Kevin’s scratches had not seeped through his shirt and touched the ground. Lord Desio of the Minwanabi had sworn the vengeance of his house into the hands of Turakamu. And with or without invitation, the Death God walked where he would. If he chose to favour the Minwanabi, the Acoma would be swept away without trace from the land and the memory of man.

  • Chapter Seven •

  Target

  Mara stirred.

  Her hand brushed warm flesh, and she started awake. In the predawn gloom, she saw Kevin as a figure of greys and blacks. He was not asleep but propped on one elbow looking at her. ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said.

  Mara smiled drowsily and snuggled into the crook of his elbow. She felt tired but content. Through the months since Kevin had come to her bed, she had discovered new aspects to herself, a sensual side, a tender side, kept hidden away until now. The pleasures she shared with the barbarian made the brutalities of her marriage seem a distant and unpleasant dream.

  Playfully she ran her fingers through the hair on Kevin’s chest. She had come to value their morning chat after lovemaking as much as council with her advisers. In ways not fully realized, she was learning from him. His nature was far more guarded than she had guessed upon first impression; she now understood that his direct and open manner stemmed from a cultural surface trait that masked an inner privacy. Kevin remained intentionally vague about his previous life and family, and though she asked often, he avoided talk of the future, as if he concealed his plans in that regard, as well. Different as he was from a born Tsurani, Mara judged his character to be complex and deep. She found it astonishing that such a man could be a common soldier, and wondered if others with like potential lay undiscovered among her warriors.

  Kevin said something, disturbing her contemplation.

  Mara smiled indulgently. ‘What did you say?’

  Caught up by a thought, he mused, ‘What strange contrasts your world has.’

  Brought to alertness by his uncharacteristic intonation, Mara focused her attention. ‘What troubles you?’

  ‘Are my thoughts so transparent?’ Kevin shrugged in partial embarrassment. He remained silent for a moment, then added, ‘I was thinking of the poor quarter in Sulan-Qu.’

  ‘But why?’ Mara frowned. She attempted to reassure him. ‘You will never be permitted to starve.’

  ‘Starve?’ Surprise made Kevin pause. He drew a fast breath, then stared at her, as if he might fathom her woman’s mind by studying her intently. At last, moved to some inner conclusion, he admitted, ‘Never in my life have I seen people suffering in such numbers.’

  ‘But you must have poor folk in the Kingdom of the Isles,’ Mara returned without inflection. ‘How else do your gods show their displeasure at man’s behaviour than by returning him to his next life in low estate?’

  Kevin stiffened. ‘What do the gods have to do with starving children, disease, and cruelty? And what of the righteousness of good works and charity? Have you no alms in this land or are all Tsurani nobles born cruel?’

  Mara shoved herself upright, spilling cushions across the waxed floor. ‘You are a strange man,’ she observed in a voice that hid a note of panic. As often as she had bent tradition, she had never questioned the gods’ omnipotence. To dare that heresy was to invite utter destruction. Mara realized that other nobles might be less firm in their adherence to their ancestors’ faith, but she herself was devout; had fate not destined her for the ruler’s mantle, she would have dedicated herself to a life of contemplative service to the goddess Lashima. The ultimate truth was that the gods decreed the order of the Empire. To question this was to undermine the very concept of honour that was the foundation of Tsurani society. It was this divine mandate that imparted order to the Empire and made sense of everything, from the certainty of ultimate reward for honourable service, and the right of nobles to rule, to constraints in the Game of the Council so that wholesale carnage never resulted.

  With one careless remark, the barbarian had challenged the very fabric of Tsurani beliefs.

  Mara clung to her poise, inwardly battered by a host of alarming implications. The pleasures Kevin brought her could never compensate for the dangerous new bent of his thoughts. He must not be allowed to speak such blasphemous idiocy, especially not within Ayaki’s hearing; the boy had grown to dote upon Kevin, and the future Lord of the Acoma’s resolve as he led his house to greatness must never be shaken by uncertainties. To conquer the might of other families because the gods looked favourably upon such efforts was one thing; to vainly think accolades came solely through wit and skill, and some random factor of luck was … was morally destructive and unthinkable. Cornered, with only one option, the Lady of the Acoma chose her course.

  ‘Leave me,’ she said sharply. She arose at once from her bed and brusquely clapped for servants. Although the sun had not yet risen, and the screens were still closed for the night, two maids and a manservant answered her summons.

  ‘Dress me at once,’ the Lady commanded. One maid rushed to select a robe, while the other took up brush and comb to attend to her mistress’s tangles. The manservant tidied the scattered cushions and adjusted the screens. The fact that Kevin got in his way seemed not to faze him. Wizened and old, and ingrained in the habit of his duties, he went about straightening up the chamber as though he were deaf.

  Mara slipped her arms into the rose-coloured silken robe the maid held up for her. She turned and saw Kevin standing naked, his breeches and shirt across his arm, and a dumbfounded look on his face. The Lady’s expression remained stern, her dark eyes fathomless and hard. ‘Jican tells me that the work clearing the forest for my needra fields goes slowly. This is mostly owing to your countrymen, who complain and malinger over their appointed share of work.’ The maid with the comb lifted the hair from Mara’s nape and began expertly piling it into an elaborately knotted headdress. Mara continued in a level tone, despite the fact that her head was tugged this way and that as the maid separated each long lock for arrangement. ‘I wish you to take charge,’ Mara announced. ‘Spring will be upon us all too swiftly, and the needra herds will increase. You shall have power over my overseers and the authority to change any detail you see fit. In return, your countrymen will cease their laziness. They will cut timber and clear the new fields before the first calf is thrown. You may coddle their needs so long as the work gets done. Fail to complete this task, and I shall have one man chosen at random and hung for each day my new pastures remain unfinished past the Spring Welcoming Festival.’

  Kevin appeared puzzled, but he nodded. ‘Shall I return tonight, or –’ he began.

  ‘You will need to stay with the workers in the meadow camp.’

  ‘When shall I return –’

  Coldly Mara interrupted. ‘When I choose to send for you. Now go.’

  Kevin bowed, his face revealing bafflement and anger. Still carrying his clothing, he departed the room. The soldier on duty by the door showed no change in expression as the barbarian stepped into the corridor. T
he Midkemian looked at the impassive soldier as if he had said something, then let loose a burst of ironic laughter. ‘Damned if I can figure her out, either,’ he confided in tight frustration. The soldier’s eyes fixed upon Kevin, but the features remained unchanged.

  Despite being surrounded by servants, Mara overheard Kevin’s comment. She heard the pain that he did not bother to conceal, and closed her eyes against inexplicably threatening tears. Tsurani decorum kept her from showing emotion, though her inner self might cry out with the desire to call Kevin back. As a lover she wished to ease his pain, but as Lady of the Acoma she must not be ruled by the heart. Mara kept her anguish behind a mask, while her servants worked unobtrusively on her person.

  Afraid to move, afraid even to sigh lest her control break into an uncontrollable bout of weeping, Mara called in a small voice for a meal. As much as she longed for release, tears would be shameful for the Lady of the Acoma. To be shaken by a barbarian slave’s words, to feel desolate over his absence, was not appropriate for the Lady of a great house. Mara swallowed her pain, which was doubled by knowing she had wounded Kevin in saving herself. She found no relief in restraint nor did the silent disciplinary chants learned in Lashima’s temple help ease the ache. When her breakfast tray arrived, she picked at the food without appetite and stared into empty space. Her servants remained dutiful and silent. Bound to traditions as rigid as her own, they waited for her next command without judgment upon her behaviour.

  Mara at last signalled, and servants removed the breakfast tray with the food barely touched. Determined to master her inner turmoil, Mara called her advisers to conference. They met in her study, Keyoke alert as always, his Force Commander’s plumes the only decoration on his well-scarred, common armour. He had been up before dawn to oversee a patrol on the borders, and his sandals were still dew-drenched and dirty. Nacoya, who usually dragged in the mornings, perked up sharply as she completed her bow and noticed Kevin’s absence. She breathed a perceptible sigh of relief: at long last her mistress had come to her senses and sent the tall barbarian away.

  Angered by the old woman’s worldly-wise satisfaction, Mara repressed a desire to slap Nacoya’s wizened cheek. Then, shamed by her inappropriate resentment, she looked for her hadonra’s arrival. At the point when she was ready to send her runner slave to find him, Jican arrived. Puffing, he bowed very low and apologized profusely for his tardiness. As Mara belatedly recalled that his delay had been caused by her summarily rearranging the work roster, she cut Jican’s apologies short.

  ‘I want a list of every asset we have that you feel might be vulnerable to exploitation by enemies,’ Mara instructed. ‘There must be other transactions aside from our silk interests that Desio could damage, either by undercutting prices, or through buying off the guilds who rate the quality of our goods. There are markets he might strangle, trade routes he could disrupt, agents that could be bribed, and buyers who could be threatened. Boats could be sunk, wagons overturned, warehouses burned; none of this must be allowed to occur.’

  ‘That does not seem to be Desio’s style,’ a dry voice said from the doorway that opened onto the outer pathways. Arakasi stepped in through the partially opened screen, a shadow against the misty grey of dawn.

  Mara barely managed to repress her surprise; Keyoke and the guards in the hallway all lowered their hands from their weapons. The Spy Master bowed and chose a place among the advisers, and the furrow over his brows indicated he had more to say. Mara indicated her permission, and the Spy Master sat at the table, his long fingers folded in his lap.

  He continued as if his presence had been expected all along. ‘Except that the young Lord of the Minwanabi has not held power for long enough to evolve much style.’ As if he were still formulating his conclusion, the Spy Master stroked the merchant’s plaited scalp lock he had cultivated for his latest guise on the road. One thing is clear, though: Desio is spending huge sums of money upon something. The markets from here to Ambolina are choked with Minwanabi goods, and from the scant information from our clerk in Desio’s employ, I would presume the unaccounted money is being invested in gifts, bribes, or favours.’

  Agitated at this news, Mara chewed her lip. ‘Bribes for what?’ she mused softly. ‘There must be some means of finding out.’

  Keyoke’s deep voice interrupted. ‘This morning, my soldiers caught a strange herder lurking in the needra fields that border the Tuscalora estates. They took him for questioning, but he died on his dagger rather than name his true master.’

  Arakasi’s eyes slitted speculatively as Nacoya said, ‘He was probably one of Lord Jidu’s spies, sent to check the guard on the bridge across the gorge.’ The First Adviser pursed her lips, as if thought of the Acoma’s southern neighbour brought a bad taste to her mouth. ‘The Tuscalora chocha-la harvest is nearly ready for market, and by now even Jidu’s thick-witted hadonra must guess that his wagons will not be using Mara’s bridge to reach the road without paying toll for their passage.’

  The Spy Master leaned sharply forward. ‘I would not count on the possibility that herder was Jidu’s.’

  Mara nodded. ‘Neither do I take your hunches lightly, Arakasi.’ To Keyoke she added, ‘We must send a patrol to guard Lord Jidu’s borders – unobtrusively, of course. His warriors are good, but they may not realize how much my enemies might gain if their master’s crops burned.’

  Keyoke nodded, the hands at rest upon his sword unmoving as he contemplated this touchy assignment. Lord Jidu of the Tuscalora might be lax in his spending habits, but his soldiers were fine warriors.

  Jican diffidently offered advice on this point. ‘Lord Jidu hires migrant workers from Neskesha to help with the harvest, when his crop is abundant. This has been a bountiful year. Perhaps some of the warriors could disguise themselves as chocha-la pickers and infiltrate the workers in the fields. The overseers would not know every strange face, and since our men would be drawing no pay, their presence might pass unnoticed for many days.’

  Keyoke expanded this proposition. ‘Better, and for our warriors’ honour, we could stage battle manoeuvres in the meadows beside Lord Jidu’s estates. Our own workers can infiltrate the groups of Tuscalora pickers, and if trouble arises, they could slip away and alert our troops.’

  Mara nodded decisively. ‘Let this be done.’ She dismissed her advisers, assuring Jican she would study the finance papers brought for her review after the midday meal.

  Then, atypically vague and aimless, Mara retired to the garden, seeking solace. But the paths between the flowering kekali bushes seemed lonely and empty in the morning light. The growing heat of day oppressed her. As the Lady wandered among the fragrant akasi blooms, her thoughts returned to her nights in Kevin’s arms. Her feelings at the time had seemed so profoundly right, and now his absence made her ache, as if a piece of her being were missing. She contrived a thousand excuses to send for him – only for a moment, to answer a question, to play with Ayaki, to clarify some obscure rule in the game his people called knucklebones …

  Mara’s eyes sheened over with tears, and she misstepped, stumbling over a raised stone in the path. Her musing dissolved into anger; she needed no reason, she was Mara, Ruling Lady of the Acoma! She could order her slaves where she would without explanation to anyone. Then, wakened to her own folly before she gave in to impulse, she firmed her inward resolve. Her house had stood at the brink of ruin since the death of her father and brother. She must do nothing to risk the gods’ displeasure. If she failed, if she lost sight of the ways of her ancestors over an affair of the heart, every Acoma retainer from the least servant in her scullery to her beloved senior advisers would suffer. Their years of loyal service and the honour of her family name must never be sacrificed for the sake of dalliance with a slave. Nacoya had been right. Kevin was a danger to her, best put aside without regret.

  Damn the barbarian, she reflected with irritation. Couldn’t he learn his place quickly, and become a Tsurani slave? Couldn’t he cease his poisonous, perilous thinkin
g? Sadness pushed through her confusion and mixed with annoyance at herself. I am Ruling Lady, she scolded inwardly. I should know what to do. Miserably, Mara admitted, ‘But I don’t.’

  The servant by the garden gate who awaited his mistress’s command called out, ‘My Lady?’

  Mara bit back a needlessly harsh reply. ‘Send for my son and his nurse. I would play with him for a while.’

  The man returned a proper bow and hurried to do her bidding. Immediately Mara’s mood brightened. Nothing brought a smile to her lips more reliably than the boisterous laughter of her son as he chased after insects, or raced till he was breathless through the garden.

  Desio hammered his pudgy fist into the tabletop, causing a candle to topple, and a dozen jade ornaments to scatter and roll upon the carpet. A nervous servant hurried to gather the fallen items, and First Adviser Incomo stepped aside to avoid being struck by the rolling pedestal that had supported a goddess figurine.

  ‘My Lord,’ he implored cautiously, ‘you must have patience.’

  ‘But Mara is about to gain a vassal!’ Desio howled. ‘That lazy idiot Jidu of the Tuscalora doesn’t even see what’s coming!’

  The servant arose, a half-dozen precious carvings clutched to his chest. Desio chose that moment to bang the table again. The servant cringed, and with shaking hands began to restore the ornaments to their former resting place. Incomo regarded his Lord’s flushed face and sighed with restrained impatience. He was weary from days spent indoors, each one filled with long and profitless hours in attendance upon a Lord whose mind held no subtlety. Yet until cousin Tasaio returned, Incomo could do little except endure Desio’s ranting.

  ‘If only we could arrange a raid to burn those chocha-la bushes,’ the Lord of the Minwanabi complained. ‘Then Jidu would see his ruin staring him in the face, and we would rescue him with a loan that would compel his loyalty to us. Where did that fatheaded needra bull find the foresight to disguise informants among his workers? Now we dare not intervene without damaging our credibility in the council.’