The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  A loud peal of thunder rattled the house, and echoes boomed across the night-dark lake. With a field commander’s ability to adjust his voice to noise, Tasaio said, ‘Here are your orders, First Adviser. Dismiss Desio’s body servants and concubines. I have staff of my own, and they will attend me as I don my robes of mourning. I shall sleep this night in the officers’ barracks. Tell my hadonra to clear everything that belonged to Desio from the Lord’s quarters. I want the chambers stripped. My carry boxes and personal items will be fully installed by dawn, and the old Lord’s robes, bedding, and other personal items will be burned.’ Tasaio’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tell the kennel master to cut the throats of the man-killer hounds – they will answer to no other master. After first light, assemble every member of this household on the drill field. A new Lord of the Minwanabi rules, and all must understand that inefficiency will not be tolerated.’

  ‘As my Lord wishes.’ Incomo prepared for a sleepless night. He unfolded sore knees and made ready to stand, but his master had not finished.

  The Lord of the Minwanabi regarded his First Adviser with flat, unwavering eyes. ‘You do not need to indulge me as you did my cousin. I will hear your thoughts on all matters, even if my opinion lies contrary. You may suggest as you see fit until the moment I give orders. Then you will silently obey. Tomorrow we shall review the accounts and call together an honour guard. By midday I wish to be in my barge of state, on my way downriver to Kentosani. See that every detail is in order for my journey. For when I reach the Holy City I intend to present my case.’

  ‘What case, my Lord?’ Incomo inquired in tacit respect.

  At last Tasaio smiled, a sword-sharp brightness to his expression. ‘Why, to assume the seat of Warlord, obviously. Who has a better claim than I?’

  Incomo felt the hair stir at his neck. At last, after years of wishful yearning, he would serve a Lord who was clever, competent, and ambitious.

  Thunder shook the floor again, and rain slashed against the screens. Straight in the wavering flare of lamplight, Tasaio finished his thought. ‘Once I wear the white and gold, we shall obliterate the Acoma.’

  Incomo bowed again. When he rose, the room was empty, a draught through the darkened doorway the only trace of his master’s visit. Silently the First Adviser considered the desire he had never dared utter, but that fate and the gods had freely granted: Tasaio now wore the Minwanabi mantle. Touched by a mood of dry irony, Incomo wondered why the gift left him feeling worn and old.

  The storm left runoff that trickled in streams around the luck symbols anchored to the roof peaks of the Imperial Palace, and downspouts dripped into puddles in the courtyards. Inside the building, the sound of falling water became muffled; draughts played like sighs up and down the cavernous corridors, setting streaming the flames of those lamps that servants had bothered to light. Lujan and five armoured warriors marched briskly through concourses gloomy with shadows to report back to the Acoma apartment.

  Mara met her Force Commander in the middle room, where she conferred with Arakasi. Kevin stood by the wall at her shoulder, his mood of biting sarcasm brought on by inactivity. He had a headache. His teeth were on edge from listening to warriors sharpen weapons, and the reek of the lacquer used to preserve laminated-hide armour made his stomach queasy.

  Before the Lady’s cushions, Lujan arose from his bow. ‘Mistress,’ he said briskly, ‘we bring word of new movement by Sajaio, Tondora, and Gineisa soldiers into apartments previously unoccupied.’

  Mara frowned. ‘Minwanabi dogs. Any word of the kennel master himself?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’ Lujan unstrapped his helm and scuffed his fingers through damp hair.

  Arakasi looked up from the untidy pile of notes passed on to him that morning by his contacts throughout the palace. He regarded the Acoma Force Commander with hooded eyes. ‘In three more days, the Emperor will return to the palace.’

  Propped by one shoulder against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, Kevin said, ‘Taking his own sweet time about it, isn’t he?’

  ‘There are a great number of rituals and ceremonies along the way,’ Mara broke in, her irritation barely masked. ‘One does not travel with twenty priests, a thousand bodyguards, and five thousand soldiers and make speed.’

  Kevin shrugged. Confinement and stress affected them all. For two days the business in council had been building momentum. Mara spent up to fifteen hours at a stretch closeted in the great hall. At night she returned so exhausted that she barely had inclination to eat. She looked peaked and thin, and despite lavish solicitude from her lover, what little sleep she garnered was troubled. If the nights were unsatisfactory, the days were worse. Inactivity of any sort burned Kevin’s nerves, but even boredom had limits. Duty in the scullery drove him to vocal rebellion, and though seldom given to self-indulgence, he lacked the fatalism that enabled the Tsurani warriors to endure in seemingly endless patience.

  Mara sighed and took stock of her gains. ‘So far I have held council with seventeen Lords, and have bound only four to agreements.’ She shook her head. ‘A poor record. No one wishes to commit, though many pretend to be willing. Too many factions contend for the Warlord’s seat, and to support one candidate openly brings the enmity of all of his rivals.’

  Arakasi uncrumpled a note that carried a pungent smell of fish. ‘My agent at the dockside reports the arrival of Dajalo of the Keda.’

  Mara perked up at this. ‘Is he in residence at his town house, or the Imperial Palace?’

  ‘Patience, Lady.’ Arakasi shuffled through his notes, discarded three, then scanned the coded script of another that smelled intriguingly of perfume. ‘Town house,’ the Spy Master concluded. ‘At least for tonight.’

  Mara clapped her hands for the scribe brought in to help with correspondence. ‘Address this to Lord Dajalo of the Keda. First offer our condolences for the death of his father, along with our certainty that his end was both brave and honourable. Then let Dajalo understand that the Acoma hold a document over Lord Andero’s personal chop that binds House Keda to one vote of our choosing. Dajalo, as new ruling Lord, is bound to honour this.’

  ‘Mistress,’ Arakasi broke in. ‘Isn’t this a little … abrupt?’

  Mara ran her fingers through the masses of her hair, the ends of which were still crimped into curls from being pinned. ‘Perhaps I have acquired habits from this barbarian I keep around.’ She paused, as thunder rolled in the distance. ‘Have no doubt … Tasaio of the Minwanabi will be among us quite soon, and then I may need this vote instantly.’

  A tap at the entry interrupted. A guard appeared in the doorway and bowed. ‘Mistress, our scouts report armed men moving through the outer hallways of the palace.’

  Mara glanced at Lujan, who jammed his helm over tangled hair and left still fastening the strap. Lightning flickered silver beyond the outer screens, reduced to slits between barricades now reinforced with raw boards. Kevin resisted a caged animal’s need to pace, while Mara and Arakasi made a pretence of reading reports. The scratch of the scribe’s quill filled the interval until the Force Commander returned.

  His bow was almost cursory as he said, ‘Our lookouts have spied two bands of soldiers, numbering twenty to thirty each. They pass in the shadows and would seem to be moving toward another section of the palace.’

  ‘What house?’ Mara asked, half-fearful to hear the reply.

  ‘None, pretty Lady,’ Lujan’s reassurance was dubious. ‘These wear black armour, without markings or badge.’

  Mara raised eyes gone wide in the lamplight. ‘Then it is beginning.’

  Lujan passed quiet orders to the warriors in the front chamber. The last screen cracked to let in air was drawn shut and wedged in its frame with wooden pegs. A table was turned on end and levered against the outer door, then braced in place with a massive bar. Now the humidity brought in by the storm became like a stifling blanket. Arakasi seemed unaffected, where he sat in poised stillness poring over his notes.

  But Kevin sweated an
d chafed, his empty hands itching for a blade. The hours wore on toward midnight. Sounds came muffled through the walls. Footfalls splashed through puddles, or pounded down hallways and stairs, sometimes broken by a shout. The rain ceased, and insects in Mara’s garden rasped their nightly song.

  Since nobody seemed inclined to attend to the commonplace necessities, Kevin finally knelt at Mara’s shoulder and pulled away the parchment she had held without reading for an hour. ‘You must be hungry,’ he coaxed.

  Mara leaned her head against him. ‘Not really. But I should eat something if I am to be alert in council tomorrow.’

  Kevin arose, prepared for the inevitable battle of wills that transpired when he invaded the kitchen. Jican considered any slave caught empty-handed to be fair game. Tonight he seemed primed for fight, since a squad of busy scullions was already scouring kettles and plates. As if the din of crockery were a charm to ward away the distant sounds of conflict, every ladle or cup or soup bowl was getting sanded down and polished. Jican spotted Kevin in the doorway, and his worried face brightened. ‘The mistress wishes to eat?’

  Kevin nodded, and found himself the startled recipient of a tray of warm bread, cheeses, and fruit. Disappointed by his easy victory, he swallowed a carefully prepared retort and returned to his Lady. He set down the supper and sat with her, while she made a concerted effort to take sustenance. In the end, Arakasi finished the food. Kevin urged Mara to bed, while at every window and door the warriors waited like statues, prepared for an attack that never came.

  Morning dawned. Mara arose from her cushions and called for her bath and her maids. Makeup erased the shadows of worry from her face, and three layers of formal robes disguised her thinness. At the last minute, just as she was poised to leave, she turned and looked hard at Kevin.

  Nettled by the prospect of another tedious day, he regarded her with reproachful blue eyes.

  Mostly because she feared an attack on her apartment in her absence, Mara gave in to impulse and relented. ‘Come with me. Remain close and stay silent unless I tell you otherwise.’

  Kevin fairly leaped to join her retinue. Lujan called her honour guard to form ranks, and minutes later the Acoma contingent made their entrance into the Council Hall.

  Sunlight angled across the dome overhead, spotlighting the yellowed murals above the galleries. The upper seats were already filled, with those lowest still empty. The chaos had subsided enough for the Tsurani nobles to be once more attentive to rank, Kevin observed. He followed Mara down the steps, while Lujan took station with two other warriors behind her. The rest of her honour guard remained on the concourse by the door, as if this council were no different from any other.

  But as she passed an empty chair on the way to her appointed place, Mara pressed her fingers to her mouth to stifle a cry of shock. ‘Trouble?’ Kevin murmured, his promise of silence forgotten.

  Mara returned a barely perceptible nod. Clearly unhappy, she whispered, ‘The Lord Pataki of the Sida is dead.’

  Kevin said, ‘Who?’

  ‘A man who was kind to me once, in defiance of public sentiment. He was also a potential ally. Yesterday he was here, but this morning his seat is vacant.’

  ‘How do you know he isn’t just lingering over breakfast?’ Kevin murmured.

  Mara settled into her chair and nodded for her slave to stand behind and to her right. ‘Only an assassin could have kept Pataki from this chamber.’ She made an inventory of the nearby galleries. ‘Three other Lords are also absent, from the look of things.’

  ‘Friends of yours?’ Kevin did his best to keep his voice down.

  ‘No. Enemies of Minwanabi,’ answered Mara. She snapped her small ornamental fan open and murmured something to Lujan, who arranged his warriors around her seat, then assumed the place nearest the aisle where his sword would be first in her defence.

  The lowest gallery was now beginning to fill. Kevin looked around at the great Lords of the Empire, dressed up like peacocks in full plumage. Some sat like royalty in their places, speaking to those who came to petition for favours or alliances. Others stood in clumps, changing position or exchanging confidences like butterflies congregating around flowers. The Game of the Council was less an overt battle for hierarchy than a subtle, endless sequence of encounter, rebuff, and social machination.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Kevin said after long minutes of study. ‘No one seems to act as if four of their fellow councillors were murdered.’

  ‘Death is part of the game,’ Mara answered, and as the morning wore on, Kevin came finally to understand. To show undue notice of another’s defeat was to imply dishonour, since murder in and of itself meant that someone was responsible. In the absence of proof, the Tsurani perceived only ‘accidents’. A Lord might kill with impunity, and even win the admiration of his rivals for doing so, as long as the forms were observed.

  A middle-aged Lord sauntered up to Mara, who rose in greeting and bowed. Social conversation was exchanged, with a word or two concerning trade issues. Kevin was left to his own thoughts. This calm conducting of business during the day, while assassins had roamed the palace the night before, frightened him beyond anything he had known since he was captured.

  A rustle of voices swept through the room as a young man strode into the lower gallery. Flanked by six guards in scarlet and grey armour, he assumed one of the more imposing chairs opposite the central dais. Heads turned to watch as he motioned an adviser to his side. After a word in conference, the minister bowed and immediately hurried up the steps to where Mara and the other noble spoke. Aware by a low stir of whispering that something significant had occurred, Kevin watched the exchange.

  The adviser made Mara a bow. ‘My Lady of the Acoma, my Lord wishes you to know that the Keda stand ready to honour any debt incurred in their name.’

  Mara inclined her head slightly, and the minister departed. This message had a profound effect upon the man whose conversation was interrupted. His entire manner changed, from dominance to sincere subservience. And suddenly several other lesser nobles were making their way down from the galleries, seeking word with the Lady of the Acoma.

  Kevin watched in wonder as the subtle currents of Tsurani politics shifted, with Mara becoming more and more a central object of attention. With the leaders of the Five Great Houses lost on the alien world, the more powerful clans were caught up in their own internecine struggle. This left openings for the lesser families within those clans, and for the smaller clans within the council, to negotiate, make promises, and seek out potential support. If the armies of the mighty were to march upon one another in rivalry, the weaker houses needed to stand together, or else insinuate themselves beneath the mantle of more powerful protectors. Treaties and standoffs were arranged, concessions were made freely and under duress, and trade properties changed owners as sureties and gifts. As the day wore on toward noon, Kevin realized that Mara had not yet needed to leave her chair: interested parties came to her, which did not escape the notice of other factions. Inrodaka and Ekamchi glanced often toward the vacant seat of the Lord of the Minwanabi, while members of the Ionani Clan made smiling remarks to a stiff-faced Tecuma of the Anasati.

  Just before midday, a company of soldiers in purple and yellow entered and accompanied a slender young man of dark good looks to the chair of the Xacatecas. The heir to Chipino’s mantle took his place within the council with all of his father’s cool poise. Mara, watching, flipped out her fan and held it pressed for a moment against her forehead. Kevin sensed her distress. He could offer no word of sympathy, but only stand rigid as he, too, noticed with a wrench how much the Xacatecas boy resembled his departed father.

  Three Lords waited politely for Mara’s attention. She recovered her poise and entertained them with anecdotes until most of the Lords of Clan Xacala had had time to present themselves to the heir of their former Warchief.

  A lull came at last. Mara beckoned to Lujan and descended the shallow stair, until she stood before the Lord of the Xacatecas.
Up close, Hoppara looked every inch the young raptor, though his hair and eyes were a warmer brown, and his slenderness was his mother Isashani’s. But he had Chipino’s bearing and presence, even in untried youth. He rose, formally bowed, and said, ‘Are you well, Mara of the Acoma?’

  Mara felt her colour rise. By inquiring after her health before she could speak, Hoppara had acknowledged before all present that Mara was his social superior! Since his blood was of the Five Great Families, this gesture was little more than a courtesy, but in some meaningful if subtle way the concession held stunning consequence. Even as Mara drew breath to frame her reply, she could sense the stir in the galleries. Nobles near Lord Xacatecas regarded her with astonished awe, while others looked sourly on from their seats across the dais.

  Her answer held true warmth. ‘I am well, my Lord of the Xacatecas. Your grief is the grief of House Acoma. Your father was a credit to his family and clan, and more. He defended the Empire’s borders with courage and honoured the Acoma by permitting us to count him an ally. I would consider it a signal privilege if you would number my house among the friends of the Xacatecas.’

  Hoppara managed a creditable smile, though the effort did not entirely mask his grief. ‘My Lady, I would count it an honour if you would consent to dine with me this afternoon.’

  Mara bowed formally, indicating she was at his disposal. The way back to her own chair was suddenly impeded by a wave of flatterers, and until the Xacatecas First Adviser came calling to fetch her to lunch, she had no moment to herself.

  The Xacatecas apartments in the Imperial Palace were twice the size of Mara’s. The carpets and antiques were sumptuous, black-lacquered furnishings in tasteful contrast to shades of lavender, royal purple, and cream. Li birds in hanging wicker cages filled the room with song and the flutter of brightly coloured wings. Mara recognized Isashani’s love of comfort and grace, and she settled in relief upon soft, thick cushions. The servants had been trained by Lord Chipino, and one of them had served on the desert campaign. Already familiar with her habits, he held a bowl of water scented with the perfume she preferred. As Mara washed, she thought sadly of the old master, while Kevin found his place on the floor behind her shoulder.