Dryly Incomo said, ‘I suggest my Lord read the message.’
The parchment changed hands. Stillness fell, marred by the creak of armour as the slave who bore the Lord’s gloves and helm shifted his burden from one tired arm to the other. Desio laboriously scanned the closing lines, and his eyes widened with pleasure. ‘Is Bruli’s observation reliable?’
Incomo tapped his cheek with a finger. ‘Who can ever be certain? I read into this situation as you might, my Lord, that sundry factions in Mara’s clan fear her sudden rise. Should she gain much more honour and wealth, she’ll certainly come to dominate Clan Hadama. No other house is more powerful now, if the truth were known; only divided loyalties prevent Mara from dictating clan policy. That, however, could change. These worthy lords who have presumed to contact Bruli of the Kehotara are careful to let us know they do not see their own fortunes necessarily tied to those of House Acoma.’
Desio sat forward, elbows rested on his knees. He pondered, realized he was thirsty, and waved for his slave to carry his armour off and fetch refreshments. ‘We can thank the gods for small favours. Still, better Clan Hadama’s families remain neutral than join their ranks against us.’
Incomo said, ‘I think my Lord has missed the other implication.’
Matured by his power, and less intolerant of correction, Desio returned a penetrating gaze. Plainly his First Adviser had best be concise if he wished to escape his Lord’s ire. ‘What implication?’
‘Our agents have progressed in their work to infiltrate Mara’s spy network.’ Fired by acerbic enthusiasm, Incomo spread his bony palms. ‘We have isolated still another Acoma agent; nearly all their contacts have been traced, their couriers identified. Occasional plants of useful information have kept those lines open. At need, we can manipulate these Acoma dogs to our advantage.’
A strange look passed over Desio’s face, and a head shake prevented his Adviser from disturbing thoughts not yet formed as he stretched to grip a notion that tantalized his mind. When the servant returned with the refreshment tray, the Lord had lost his appetite. ‘I must think on something. Have my bath prepared. I stink like a needra pen.’
Incomo bowed. ‘Which girls does my master wish to attend his comforts?’
Desio silenced his Adviser with a raised palm. ‘No. I need to think. Just the bath attendant. No women. No musicians. A large mug of spiced juice will do nicely. I must have quiet for contemplation.’
Intrigued by this sudden turn toward asceticism, Incomo stepped from the dais to carry out instructions. At the door, he stopped on an afterthought. ‘Any new orders for Tasaio, my Lord?’
Fury smouldered under Desio’s hooded eyes. ‘Yes, my brilliant strategist. After four years of squandering our resources on his masterful plan in Tsubar, he must be tired. Let us see that he’s given a post that will not tax his depleted energies. We still command that fortress at Outpost Isles; send him there. Let him protect our westernmost holdings from the sea birds and fish.’
Incomo lowered his rounded shoulders into a bow, then left his master brooding and continued down a stone corridor that cut into the hill upon which the estate house rested. The cool passage was lit at long intervals with torches. Sheltered from view by thick shadow, the Minwanabi First Adviser let his frustration show. His pace turned brisk, and his robe of office flapped around thin ankles. A pity that Desio’s wits had not developed to match his resolve. For if Tasaio’s failure was dramatic, no plot in the Game could ever be guaranteed. If there had been fault with the plan, it was simply that no provision had been made to allow for failure.
Down a shallow flight of steps, and through a worn postern, Incomo arrived at the wing that jutted out of the hill toward the lake shore. While not as closely situated to the great hall as lesser quarters, the Lord of the Minwanabi’s chambers had an unobstructed view of the lake at sunset that made the walk worthwhile. Incomo clapped for servants and ordered his Lord’s private bath chamber made ready.
As the servants hurried off to assign slaves to heat the water, Incomo crossed back through the maze-like house to his own less sumptuous quarters. There, surrounded by screens painted with patterns of killwings and clouds, he cursed at his master’s orders to Tasaio. His bitterness must never be shown in public, that fate would send away the truly gifted son of the House and leave Minwanabi fortunes in the hands of … Incomo slammed his fists on a chest in a display more like his master than himself – the thoughts he entertained were unthinkable for a loyal servant, even in strictest privacy. Desio must somehow contrive to lead the Minwanabi out of this dilemma.
Incomo sank onto a cushion and clapped for his personal servant. ‘Fetch my writing desk and move it over to my contemplation mat,’ he commanded, rubbing his temples. ‘Then open the screen to admit the evening breeze, and depart.’
Alone once more, and confronted by his pens and his desk, the First Adviser thumbed a blank sheet of parchment and pondered how to compose his missive to Tasaio. While the man was ostensibly transferred to command of another Minwanabi garrison, Desio had effectively ordered banishment. The fortress in the Outpost Isles had only been established to protect Minwanabi shipping from piracy; and those waters had been cleared of such brigands for over a century and a half. The fort still stood due to the hidebound Tsurani reluctance to surrender any ground once taken. The Minwanabi manned that desolate, fogbound chunk of rock simply to prevent anyone else from supplanting them. Now one of the most gifted military minds in the Empire was being sent to the hinterlands to grow moss.
Disgusted by what he perceived as a waste, Incomo reminded himself that as the price of a grand failure went, life on that rock was light punishment. Had Lord Jingu remained alive to wear the Lord’s mantle, Tasaio would have answered for such disgrace with his head preserved in a jar of vinegar and red-bee honey. Setting brush and ink to parchment, the First Adviser sighed that so painful an order should be relegated to written correspondence. Tasaio surely deserved better. A slight word of personal regret would be appropriate; seasoned with the reverses of politics, Incomo knew better than to burn any bridge at his back. Fortune in the Great Game could turn all too quickly, and a man never knew where he might owe his loyalty in the future.
As the litter rounded the last bend in the road, Mara leaned out of the curtains with childish eagerness. The Tsurani bearers shouldered their off-balanced burden in stoic silence; they could sense their mistress’s excitement.
‘Nothing has changed,’ Mara said breathlessly. ‘The trees and the grass look so green.’ The wet season lushness of the landscape was a balm to the eye after years of barren desert. Over the final knoll, past the fences of the outermost needra fields, the well-kept estate spread across the land. Dead branches and brush shoots had been pruned back, and the grass under the hedges stood neatly clipped. Mara could see the advance scout waving from the top of the next rise. For an instant she worried: could some clever enemy have set an ambush to turn her homecoming to disaster? Had she, in her excitement, pushed her warriors and her scouts ahead too rapidly to ascertain the safety of the road? Then logic absolved her fear; she rode at the van of a triumphant army – more than one foe must join ranks in force to threaten her at her own borders.
A scout reported to the head of the column.
Mara pushed impatiently at the gauze hanging that separated her from the officers who marched beside her. ‘What news, Lujan?’
Her Force Commander flashed a smile, his teeth vividly white in his desert-tanned face. ‘Mistress, a reception!’
Mara smiled. Only now could she admit to anyone, most of all herself, just how desperately she had longed for home. The fanfares that had greeted her and Lord Xacatecas in Ilama and Jamar had been flattering, but even celebrations that heaped her with honours had proven taxing. Close to three years had passed since the orders to send her garrison in defence of the borders; too long a time in the life of a young son for a mother to be absent. Nights in Kevin’s arms and the rigours of battle by day were only a
distraction from her ache to see Ayaki.
The returning army crested the hill, the tramp of three thousand feet in the damp soil of the road a dull thunder in the morning quiet. Mara breathed in the scents of rich foliage and akasi, then went wide-eyed with wonder.
At the junction of the Imperial way and the road to the Acoma estate rose the ornate, towering arch of a magnificent prayer gate. New paint and enamelled roof tiles sparkled in sunlight and in the gate’s deep shadow, a hundred Acoma soldiers stood in ceremonial armour. Before their rows of shining shields were other well-loved figures – Keyoke, correct as his warriors but wearing the embroidered badge of an Adviser; Jican dwarfed by the hadonra’s staff of office; Nacoya, her bothered expression buried in smiles – and a pace ahead of her, a boy.
Mara’s breath caught. She fought a rush of tears, determined not to succumb to unseemly display. But the moment she had longed for, that at times had seemed elusive as a dream, overwhelmed her resolve. Kevin acted the role of body servant to perfection, lifting aside the hanging and offering his free hand to Mara. His steadiness allowed her to recover decorum as she stepped onto her native soil at last.
She had to wait, as befitted her rank, for the party by the gate to approach her. The delay was torture, and her eyes drank in details. Keyoke had mastered his crutch. He moved with barely a hitch in stride despite his missing leg, and Mara exulted in her pride for him. Nacoya had not aged so smoothly, but had acquired a slight limp. Mara smothered an impulse to rush and offer an arm; the First Adviser would never forgive such a breech of manners over something as trivial as an aching hip. Lastly, in tingling apprehension, Mara dared a look at the boy who strode resolutely toward her, head held high, back straight, and chin outward. He was so tall and rangy!
Mara’s throat tightened as she took in his child’s armour, the miniature sword at his side, the helm he lifted from ink black hair with the bearing of a perfect little Acoma warrior. Her child had grown nearly twice the size she remembered on her departure.
With rehearsed dignity, Ayaki completed the bow of son to mother. He spoke out, his child’s treble carrying solemnly over the ranks of still warriors. ‘I bid welcome to the Lady of the Acoma. We are a hundred rimes blessed by the good gods for her safe return to our home.’
Mara’s resistance crumbled. She knelt before her son and suddenly the boy’s arms were around her neck, hugging fiercely enough to crumple her fine silks. ‘I missed you, mummy,’ the boy quavered into her hair.
Moisture trembled in Mara’s eyes as she answered, though somehow she kept her voice firm. ‘I have missed you, my little soldier. More than you can ever know.’
Standing with pursed lips to one side, Nacoya allowed mother and son a moment of public indiscretion before pointedly clearing her throat. ‘The entire House of Acoma waits to welcome our mistress. So gladdened were our hearts at news of your triumph, that this prayer gate was erected to honour your victory. We trust it pleases you, Lady.’
Mara raised her face from Ayaki and examined the brilliant panels of the prayer gate, each one carved and painted with the icons of the felicitous gods. Chochocan, the Good God, seemed to smile directly upon her, while Hantukama, the Bringer of Blessed Health, spread his hands in benediction toward her army. Juran the Just beamed down from the crest of the crossbar, as if in blessing of those about to pass through. Lashima the Wise seemed to gaze with affection at one who almost had been committed to her service. The artisans had done superlative work, and the figures seemed charged with divine wisdom; but the allure of the images quickly palled. Mara took in the familiar faces of servants and soldiers, advisers and friends, then glanced back to Kevin, who returned his barbaric wide smile. Lost in a daze of happiness, she answered her waiting First Adviser. ‘Yes, Nacoya, I am pleased.’ She gave the son at her side another squeeze and added, ‘Let us return to the house of my ancestors.’
Despite the fatigue from a long journey home, Mara’s spirits soared as the night fell. The grounds of her family estate were decked out in grand celebration, coloured lanterns hanging from the trees in all the gardens, and bright bunting festooning the rails of the central entrance. Candles flickered in courtyards, porticoes, and halls. Strings of tiny bells, strung from every doorway and screen, chimed sweet melodies in thanks for the gods’ blessings with each person’s passage. Hired musicians from Sulan-Qu added their melodies to those played by performers under Acoma patronage, and song rang gaily across the grounds. Everyone, free workers, guests, and advisers, danced to celebrate Acoma triumph. Maids and serving girls laughed as they waited upon victorious soldiers, who regaled them with tales of the campaign against the desert men. In time-honoured Tsurani fashion, the warriors were modest about their own achievements, but lavished accolades upon one another; to a man they praised the daring tactics that had reversed a bitter defeat into a brilliant victory. What their Lady had done in the Game of the Council she had accomplished on the battlefield: make innovation her ally.
From his place at the mistress’s shoulder, Kevin smiled indulgently at her beaming expression. Ayaki perched like a miniature soldier at his mother’s right hand, determined to stay the course until the festivities ended, but battling drooping eyelids. He had been appointed ‘defender of the House’ in the army’s absence, and though the real military orders came from Keyoke, the boy revealed a singleminded devotion that astonished his elders. Unfailingly he had turned out to oversee every change of patrol. Ayaki was much like his father in that regard; no matter what else might be recalled of Lord Buntokapi, none spoke ill of his sense of duty or bravery. But the excitement bested the boy, finally. His chin slowly lowered until he dozed against his mother’s side.
Presuming to speak without being addressed, Kevin whispered, ‘Should I carry the boy to bed?’
Mara stroked her son’s soft cheek and shook her head. ‘Let him stay.’ Then, as if her own happiness made her sensitive to the needs of others, she said discreetly, ‘Go say your greetings to your countrymen. You need not return until later.’
Kevin smothered a smile as he stepped through sumptuous piles of cushions and made his bow. The long journey from Dustari had permitted little privacy for Mara to consort with her body slave. Unlike the huge command tent on the field, with its many rooms, and the comings and goings of servants a matter beneath notice, the trader’s galley which had borne them back across the Sea of Blood and up the River Gagajin had been too cramped to allow intimacy. As much as Kevin longed to visit his fellows, he ached for the moment he could return to Mara’s side.
He might have won his mistress’s lasting love, but Tsurani culture would never change; Kevin slipped from his Lady’s hall with the briskness of a man dispatched on an errand. Once outside the main house, he crossed the lighted grounds at a jog. His favour as Mara’s lover would avail him nothing should Jican find him ‘lazing about’, with work to be done.
Kevin kept to the shadows, an easier task as he drew away from the kitchens and barracks; fewer lights burned in the servants’ compound, and the slaves’ quarters beyond were almost dark.
The music of the victory festivities seemed distant, too faint to make out a melody. Kevin stumbled over ruts in the packed earth until his eyes adjusted to the night. Left only a coppery half moon for guidance, he passed the outermost buildings and entered the cluster of board-walled shacks beyond. There were no trappings of gaiety here. Kevin felt his chest tighten as he noticed: the slave quarters might wear fresh whitewash for the celebration, but they were still only bare little huts. Seated on the ground before the doorways, clusters of ragged, dirty men shared the contents of several ceramic kettles. They ate their portion of the banquet given in Mara’s honour with their hands, wolfing down each bit as if it might be their last meal.
One man noticed Kevin’s approach and whispered, and instantly conversation broke off. All eyes turned from the food pots. Then someone commented in Midkemian that a body as tall as Kevin’s could never be a Tsurani overseer; yet another voice shoute
d through a hut’s open doorway.
‘I’ll be damned! They haven’t hanged you yet?’ A laugh followed, and a bulky figure in a patched grey robe rushed outside to meet him.
Kevin returned the laugh and hugged the broad-shouldered man, playfully rubbing his bald head. ‘Patrick! They haven’t hanged you, either, I see.’
Patrick gave a wide grin. ‘Not hardly, old son. I’m the only one who can keep this murderous crew in line.’ Voice lowered to a whisper, he added, ‘Or at least that’s what we convinced the runts.’
Stiffly, Kevin broke off the embrace. For three years he had lived with only ‘runts’ and the derogatory term shocked the recognition that his view of the Tsurani had changed. Now, confronted by the gaunt faces of his countrymen, he could not escape the fact that his perspective was unique. Familiar features had changed, become suntanned and hard despite the smiles that welcomed the discovery that their liege lord’s son still survived. Kevin surveyed the ragged gathering, his joy dampened further as he took stock of who was absent. ‘Brandon and William of LaMut, where are they?’ As if more men might be hidden within the dim doorways, Kevin cast about. ‘Marcus, Stephen, and Henry. The two Tims? Brian, Donell, and Jon: where are they, Patrick?’
‘Things changed since you left, old son.’ Patrick expostulated with a tired sigh. ‘This Jican’s a fiend for cutting expenses, so the favours you arranged from her Ladyship vanished. We’re treated the same as any other slaves now.’
‘But where are the rest of us?’ Kevin demanded in concern.
A mutter ran through the men, while thin-lipped, Patrick answered. ‘Brian’s stomach turned sour and he died in a week. The runts let him lay there and wouldn’t call any doctors for a slave. Donell was killed by a needra bull, during breeding last spring. Marcus died from the fever the wet season after you left. Some sort of snake – called “relli” by the runts – bit Tim Masonsson and the guards killed him without batting an eye. They claimed they spared him a slow death.’
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 83