The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘My great Lord, the Hamoi Tong Master has arrived in answer to your summons.’

  Tasaio briefly weighed the displeasures of meeting the tong and interrupting his evening battle drill. Interrogating the tong won out. ‘Bring him here.’ Then, obviously preoccupied with a subject that vexed him, he glanced at the apprentice’s slates and compared the clumsy lettering to the finely practised script of his teacher. ‘Take that away, and be glad I didn’t order you beaten with it.’ Motioning to the older scribe to remain, he glanced at the soldiers on the hill.

  Bowing profusely, and trying not to cry despite the disgrace of a reprimand, the apprentice collected his materials. He hurried off, almost crashing into the house servant who escorted the summoned visitor to the Lord’s dais.

  The Tong Master, the Obajan in the ancient tongue, was a man of immense breadth and girth, but not one ounce of fat. Save for a long scalp lock tied high and cascading down his back, he had a shaved head tattooed in patterns of red and white. His nose was flat, his skin deep tan, and his ears multiply pierced. His jewellery consisted of bone pins and rings that jingled lightly as he walked, and his belt held loops sewn into the leather, each of which held a variegated array of instruments of death: a half-dozen daggers, a weighted strangling cord, throwing stars, knuckle guards, picks, vials of poison, and a long metal sword. While considered an outlaw by Tsurani standards, he demanded the respect due a Ruling Lord from any he encountered in person. He was accompanied by two assassins, clad in black, as much of an honour guard as Tasaio would permit. The Tong Master came to Tasaio and bowed his head slightly, asking, ‘Are you well, my Lord?’ His voice was an ominous rumble.

  Tasaio ignored him for a long, pointed moment. Then he nodded once, acknowledging he was well. But the Lord of the Minwanabi did not inquire after the Tong Master’s health, a pointed insult.

  Silence wore on the Tong Master. As if the metal wealth he had received from the personage on the cushions suddenly left a taste like curdled milk, the chief of the tong spoke in sour tones. ‘What does my Lord require?’

  ‘This: the name of the one who hired your tong to assassinate five servants in my house.’

  The Tong Master unwisely raised his hand. The warriors arrayed behind Minwanabi’s dais instantly shifted their positions, as if to attack, causing the huge man to freeze. But he was not a slave, nor a man of weak nature. Fixing his host with a level gaze, the Master of the Hamoi Tong slowly raised his hand to scratch his chin. His tone bit as he replied. ‘Lord Tasaio, the order was your own.’

  Tasaio jumped from his cushions with a speed that had the two assassins slap hands to their own swords. The Tong Master motioned for them to resume their former positions. ‘I?’ demanded Tasaio. ‘I ordered this? How dare you utter such a lie!’

  The Tong Master locked stares with Tasaio, eyes narrowed in the flickering light of the torches. ‘Harsh words, my Lord.’ He hesitated an instant, as if weighing the need to take offence at the insult to his honour. ‘I will show you the document, with your signature and your personal chop.’

  Dumbfounded, and clumsy for the first time in his life, Tasaio sat back down. ‘My personal chop?’ His manner turned icy. ‘Let me see.’

  The huge man reached into his tunic and removed a parchment.

  Tasaio all but snatched the item out of red-stained hands. He sliced the ribbons with his dagger, cracked the rolled document straight, and studied the contents with a frown. He twisted the paper this way and that, and barked for a slave to hold one of the torches closer, turning his back upon the Obajan. He scratched a fingernail over the ink-marked chop. ‘Turakamu’s breath,’ he murmured. Then he looked up, a light of murder in his eyes. ‘What servant delivered this message?’

  The chief of the tong picked at an earring. ‘No servant, my Lord. The order was left in the usual place for such communication,’ he said calmly.

  ‘It is a forgery!’ Tasaio hissed, his hereditary Minwanabi temper breaking free of restraint. ‘I did not write a word of this! Nor did one of my scribes.’

  The Master of the Tong’s face remained impassive. ‘You did not?’

  ‘I just said that!’ the Minwanabi Lord spun suddenly, his hand clenched fast to his sword hilt. Only a gesture from their leader prevented the assassins from again making ready to strike.

  Tasaio stalked from one end of the dais to the other and rounded like a hungry predator upon the bulky figure of the Obajan. ‘I paid you a fortune in metal to serve me, not to wreak havoc in my own house, or to jump at the orders of any rival with the wits to forge documents! Some fool has dared to copy the Minwanabi family chop. You will find him for me. I want his head.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Tasaio.’ The Master of the Tong touched his forehead with his left hand, signifying agreement. ‘I will have the message traced, and the culprit sent to you in pieces.’

  ‘See that you do.’ Tasaio drew his sword and slashed air with a sharp whine of sound. ‘See that you do. Now get out of my sight, before I give your flesh to my torturers for live experimentation.’

  The Tong Master said, ‘Seek not to anger me, Lord Tasaio.’ He motioned for his assassins to step back as he moved forward to confront the Minwanabi ruler. In a low voice, he said, ‘The Hamoi are not vassals, a fact you would do well to remember. I am the Obajan of the Hamoi. I will do this thing because my family has been dishonoured, even as yours, not because you order it. Fate has given us a common enemy, my Lord, but never again threaten me.’ He glanced down and Tasaio followed his gaze. Between forefinger and thumb the man held a small dagger, masked from any other’s sight.

  The Lord of the Minwanabi did not flinch or move away. He simply returned his gaze to the eyes of the Obajan. He knew the man had but to twitch and the blade would kill before the Minwanabi Lord could possibly raise his sword. Something like savage humour flickered in Tasaio’s eyes as the Tong Master said, ‘I enjoy blood. It is mother’s milk to me. Remember that and we may remain allies.’

  Tasaio turned his back, ignoring the risk, and said, ‘Depart in peace, Obajan of the Hamoi.’ His knuckles whitened upon the hilt of his sword.

  The Tong Master turned away, nimbly for a man of his size, the dagger vanishing into his tunic before any other could see it. He left at good pace, his honour guards falling in on either side as he strode from the terrace, leaving a frustrated and enraged man slashing at phantoms in the air.

  • Chapter Twenty-Five •

  Confrontation

  Trumpets sounded.

  A dozen liveried bearers carried a platform, upon which Mara firmly held the wooden railing before her. She strove to appear assured, despite the inward conviction that she looked silly wearing the newly fashioned armour of a Hadama Warchief. Unaccustomed to the stiffness of laminated-hide greaves and bracers, and decidedly ill at ease with fittings and buckles and breastplate, she reminded herself to stand erect. Keyoke and Saric had insisted that while she could continue wearing formal robes during meetings, for her first public appearance as Clan Warchief she must dress the part.

  How a man could fight and swing a sword under such a weight of constricting gear, Mara could not guess. Newly appreciative of the warriors who marched in ranks behind, she led the army of Clan Hadama, nearly ten thousand strong, toward the gates of the Holy City.

  Seated at her feet as befitted her rank, Kevin tried to look like a meek body slave. But with the grassy verge on either side of the road jammed with cheering, waving commoners, he could hardly repress his excitement. Speaking with his face turned up toward his mistress, so that few could hear him over the crowd’s noise, he laughed. ‘They seem quite taken with you, my Lady.’

  Mara unbent enough to return a surreptitious reply. ‘I certainly hope so. Women warriors are rare in the Empire’s history, but the few who are remembered were legendary, almost as unique as the Servants of the Empire.’ She attempted to shrug off her newfound notoriety. ‘Any mob loves a spectacle. They’d cheer no matter who stood upon this platform.’

&n
bsp; ‘Maybe,’ Kevin allowed. ‘But I think they sense the Empire is in danger and see you as someone they can look to with hope.’

  Mara regarded the people who crowded the way to the outer gate of the Holy City. All castes and trades were represented, from sunburned field workers to cart drivers, merchants, and guild masters. All seemed earnest in their approval of the Lady of the Acoma. Many shouted her name, while others waved or tossed tokens made of folded paper for luck.

  Mara still looked sceptical in the face of such admiration. Kevin added, ‘They know who your enemy is and they are as surely aware of Tasaio’s dark nature as you are. You nobles may not speak ill of one another out of courtesy, but I assure you that commoners don’t share that constraint. Given the choice, they endorse the one whose policy is likely to be the more merciful. Is it yours or the Minwanabi Lord’s?’

  Mara forced herself to exhibit a calmness she did not feel; Kevin’s logic seemed reassuring. It might even be true. But the support of the common folk would have no bearing on the outcome of the pending struggle. Aware that the next few days would find her either triumphant or dead, Mara tried not to dwell upon consequences. There could be no other choices. The attack upon her and her son had forced the issue. She must move, or maintain a defensive strategy until the day that her warriors, her guard, or her spy network failed her again, and Tasaio’s blade found her heart.

  On the day her father, Sezu, had fallen victim to a Minwanabi trap, he had chosen to fight to the death rather than shame his ancestry by choosing flight, and a coward’s life. Mara could do no less; she had tried to precipitate events by her demand to meet with Tasaio. If he refused her, she must confront him. And yet, with no plan in mind to spare either her house or her honour, her posture was no more than bravado. As she rode in triumph on the platform at the head of Clan Hadama’s war strength, her mind held a morass of fears.

  ‘Look at that!’ exclaimed Kevin.

  Jerked out of morbid introspection, Mara glanced where he pointed and felt her throat tighten. An army camped to the west of the Holy City. The hills were a patchwork of coloured tents and banners, which Kevin swiftly counted. After rough calculation, he said, ‘I guess that encampment holds fifteen thousand warriors.’

  Mara’s initial jolt of nerves eased as she identified the banners. ‘That is a part of Clan Xacala. Lord Hoppara has brought the Xacatecas in strength. Others follow him.’ But not only her allies were present in force. Mara nodded across the river. ‘Look over there.’

  The road followed the Gagajin, and on the far bank Kevin saw another army, its tents so thickly clustered, the land bristled with banner poles. ‘Gods! There must be fifty, sixty thousand warriors in those hills. It looks like half the Lords of the Empire brought every man capable of wearing armour and carrying a sword.’

  Mara nodded, her mouth drawn grimly taut. ‘The issue will be decided here. Those across the river answer to Tasaio. That is the might of Clan Shonshoni, other families in vassalage, and the Minwanabi allies. I can see the banners of the Tondora and Gineisa near the river’s edge. And, of course, the Ekamchi and Inrodaka have at last sided with Tasaio.’ She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. ‘I will wager Lords Keda and Tonmargu are encamped to the north of the city, with their allies, close to forty thousand swords. And I am certain that beyond sight of the city another hundred thousand warriors are within a day’s march. Scores of lesser families stay out of harm’s way, but close enough to pick over the corpses if we come to conflict.’ She lowered her voice as if fearful the wrong ears might overhear her. ‘With so many soldiers ready to do battle, can we avoid a civil war even if we wish?’

  The crowd’s cheers and its festive mood of gaiety suddenly rang hollow. Aware that his Lady was trembling beneath her armour, Kevin returned a reassuring shrug. ‘Few soldiers are keen to kill. Give them an excuse, and they’d just as soon get drunk with one another – or indulge in a little friendly brawling. At least, that’s how it is on my world.’

  Yet the contrast between the animated expressions he remembered from Midkemia and the masklike bearing of even the meanest beggar on Kelewan could not be ignored. Kevin kept the thought to himself, that he had never known a bunch so willing to die as these Tsurani. As long as people kept calm and didn’t start insulting one another’s mothers, all these factions might be able to avoid bloodshed. But if only one loud-mouthed sod got rude …

  The thought did not bear finishing. Even with the point left unsaid, Mara a would not be blind to risk. One sword drawn for honour’s sake and all the Empire would shake. Could it be avoided? After witnessing the massacres that occurred on the Night of the Bloody Swords, Kevin did not care to examine the odds.

  As her vanguard neared the arching city gate, the crowds of admiring gawkers fell away. Into stillness and a suddenly emptied road, a patrol of imperial warriors stepped forth to meet the Hadama entourage. Mara ordered a halt before the gate as the Strike Leader approached, his white armour with gold accents brilliant in the morning sun. ‘Mara of the Acoma!’ he called.

  Unaccustomed to the weight of the plumed helm that shaded her brow, Mara nodded careful acknowledgment.

  ‘For what cause do you marshal Clan Hadama and bring them to the Holy City?’ demanded the Emperor’s officer.

  From the height of her platform, Mara stared down at the arrogant young man, supremely confident of his imperial rank. At last she said, ‘You shame the Light of Heaven with your lack of manners.’

  The officer ignored the reprimand. ‘Lady, I will answer for my actions when Turakamu judges where I will next mount the Wheel of Life.’ The young man glanced first at the armies encamped upon the riverbanks, and then with pointed reproof at the warriors following after Mara’s platform. ‘Manners are the least of our difficulties. As the gods will, many of us could encounter our fate soon enough. I have my orders.’ Obviously strained that he had only twenty soldiers at his back, and many thousands stood ready to answer Mara’s call, he finished in blunt command. ‘The Imperial Force Commander insists that I hear your reason for bringing the might of Clan Hadama to the Holy City.’

  Making an issue of this demand could prove just the flame to ignite the conflict, Mara realized. She decided it wise to ignore the slight. ‘We come for council with others of our rank and station, in the interest of the Empire’s well-being.’

  ‘Then proceed to your quarters, Lady of the Acoma, and know Imperial Peace is upon you. One honour guard of Acoma soldiers may accompany you, with a like number of clan soldiers for each Lord of the Hadama who joins you. But know that the Light of Heaven has ordered the Council Hall closed until he commands otherwise. Anyone who seeks entry to the palace without imperial consent will be counted traitor to the Empire. Now, if you would proceed?’

  The young officer stood aside to permit passage of the Warchief’s platform and her honour guard. Before resuming her march, Mara bent to Lujan and gave swift orders. ‘Carry word to Lord Chekowara and the others: we meet at my town house at sundown.’

  Her Force Commander snapped a bow. ‘And the warriors, mistress?’

  One last time, Mara scanned the surrounding hillsides with their blanket of tents and banners, soldiers and weapons racks. ‘Seek out the Minwanabi standard and encamp the men as close to his lines as possible. I wish Tasaio to know that whatever he does, an Acoma dagger is poised at his throat.’

  ‘Your will, mistress.’ Lujan hastened to relay her orders to the appropriate subofficers, and then to assemble her honour guard. In formal state, Mara signalled for her company to continue on through the city gates. As Lord Chekowara and the other Hadama Lords moved after, each in position according to rank, she wished she had some way to allay the dread lingering in the pit of her stomach. All would be determined here, within the next few days, and still she had no idea of how she would avert the fate Minwanabi had vowed, that she and her nine-year-old heir be delivered as sacrifice to the Red God. The armour she wore seemed to weigh on her shoulders, and the crowd’s shouts sudden
ly seemed uncomfortably loud. Was there anywhere left, she wondered, where she could go to find peace for thought?

  The journey through the city to her town house left Mara feeling taxed. Attributing her fatigue to poor spirits, she postponed her initial meetings and ordered the afternoon for rest. In retrospect, the change in schedule allowed Arakasi time to seek out his agents in the city and glean what information he could. She, her Spy Master, and Lujan dined alone, discussing various ways they might move to blunt Minwanabi’s ambition.

  No one had any brilliant insights.

  Next morning, Clan Hadama met. Within the inner garden’s freshly pruned greenery, the most prominent Ruling Lords of the clan, as well as a half-dozen allies, were seated in a large circle adjacent to the central fountain. Through the trill of falling water, the Lord of the Ontara ventured opinion. ‘Lady Mara, rulers who have no love for Tasaio will stand with him against the Emperor, simply because Ichindar defies tradition. Many in our own clan fear an Empire ruled by one man, even if that one is the Light of Heaven. A Warlord may dominate, the gods know, yet he is still but first among equals.’ Others murmured agreement.

  Still feeling oddly out of sorts, Mara made an effort to concentrate. Kevin’s dry observations on Tsurani politics were right on one point: these men were more in love with their own prerogatives than haters of cruelty, murder, and waste. Freshly aware that her own thinking had changed to a degree incomprehensible to all but a handful of her ruling peers, Mara regarded her clansmen and allies, and strove for tact. ‘Those who cling to tradition blindly, or out of fear of change, are fools. To embrace Tasaio is to hold a relli to your bosom. He will take warmth and nourishment, but in the end he will kill. Allow him to blunt the Emperor’s power, and you choose a worse course than absolute imperial rule. The Minwanabi Lord is a young man. He could hold the white and gold for decades. He is clever, ruthless, and, if I may speak bluntly, captivated by the pain of others. He is a clever enough player of the game that he might make question of the succession a moot issue. Almecho and Axantucar came close to creating a family office. Is the ambition of Tasaio of the Minwanabi any less?’