The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  The ruse, perhaps had worked.

  Arakasi mumbled words of apology to the man he had bothered, and rested his head on crossed elbows. While the wagon rolled, jostling over the uneven paving and splashing through the refuse that overflowed the gutters by the dockside, he smothered a sigh of relief. He was not clear of danger, nor would he be safe until he was miles removed from Ontoset. His thoughts turned to the future: whoever had arranged the trap at the factor’s would presume that his net was discovered. He would further surmise that his escaped quarry must guess that another organisation was at work. Logic insisted that this unseen enemy would react with countermeasures to foil just the sort of search that Arakasi must now launch. Ring upon ring of confusion would befuddle the trail, while the Ontoset branch of the Acoma network was left a total loss. Its lines of communication must be dissolved without trace. Two more levels of operation would have to be engaged, and swiftly: one to check for leaks in the branches in other provinces, and another to sift through a cold trail to try and ferret out this new enemy.

  The difficulties were nearly insurmountable. Arakasi had a touch for difficult puzzles, true enough. But this one was potentially deadly, like a sword edge buried in sand that any man’s foot might dislodge. He brooded until the wagons pulled up at the docks. Along with the other workers, he jumped down onto the wharf and set hands to a hoist. One after another, the cloth bales were dragged from the wagon beds and loaded into waiting nets. Arakasi shoved on the pole with the rest when the hoist was full, lifting the cargo high and swinging it onto the deck of the barge warped alongside. The sun rose higher, and the day warmed. At the first opportunity, he slipped away on the excuse that he needed a drink of water, and vanished into the poor quarter.

  He must make his way out of Ontoset without help. To approach any other link in his net was to risk being rediscovered; worse, he might lead his pursuit to a fresh area of endeavor, and expose still more of his undercover workings. There were men in this city who would harbor fugitives for pay, but Arakasi dared not approach them. They could be infiltrated by the enemy, and his need to escape might connect him irrefutably to the incident at the warehouse. He wished for a bath and a chance to soak out the splinters still lodged under his skin, but he would get neither. A slave’s grey clothing or a beggar’s rags must see him past the city gates. Once outside the walls, he must hole up in the countryside until he could be certain he had made a clean break. Then he might try the guise of a courier and hasten to make up for his delay.

  He sighed, discomforted by the extended time he would be traveling, left alone with conjecture. He held troubled thoughts, of an unknown antagonist who had nearly taken him out of play with one move, and that enemy’s master, an unseen, unassailable threat. With Clan War between Mara and Lord Jiro decreed forbidden by the magicians, his beloved Lady of the Acoma was endangered. As opportunists and enemies banded into alliances against her, she was going to need the best intelligence to ward from her yet more underhanded moves in the murderous intrigues of the Great Game.

  The tailor allowed the robe’s silken hem to fall to the floor. Pins of finely carved bone were clenched between his teeth; he stepped back to admire the fit of the formal garment commissioned by the Lord of the Anasati.

  Lord Jiro endured the craftsman’s scrutiny with contained disdain. His features expressionless, he stood with his arms held out from his body to avoid a chance prick from the pins that fastened the cuffs. His posture was so still that the sequins sewn in the shape of killwings that adorned the front of the robe did not even shimmer in the light that fell through the open screen.

  ‘My Lord,’ lisped the tailor around the pins pinched between his teeth, ‘you look splendid. Surely every unmarried noble daughter who beholds your magnificence will swoon at your feet.’

  Jiro’s lips twitched. He was not a man who enjoyed flattery. Careful with appearances to the point where the unperceptive might mistakenly think him vain, he well knew the value of clothing when it came to leaving an impression. The wrong raiment could make a man seem stupid, overweight, or frivolous. Since swordplay and the rigors of battle were not to Jiro’s taste, he used every other means to enhance his aspect of virility. An edge could be gained, or a contest of wits turned into victory more subtle than any coarse triumph achieved on the fields of war.

  Proud of his ability to master his foes without bloodshed, Jiro had to restrain himself not to bridle at the tailor’s thoughtless compliment. The man was a craftsman, a hireling barely worth of notice, much less his anger. His words were of less consequence than the wind, and only chance had caused him to jar against a memory Jiro yet held with resentment. Despite his closest attention to manners and dress, Lady Mara had spurned him. The awkward, coarse-mannered Buntokapi had been chosen over him. Even passing recollection caused Jiro to sweat with repressed fury. His years of studied effort had availed him not at all, when all of his wits and schooled charm had been summarily dismissed by the Acoma. His ridiculous – no, laughable – lout of a brother had triumphed over him.

  Bunto’s smirk was unforgiven; Jiro still stung from remembered humiliation. His hands closed into fists, and he suddenly had no stomach for standing still. ‘I don’t like this robe,’ he snapped peevishly. ‘It displeases me. Make another, and have this one torn up for rags.’

  The tailor turned pale. He whipped the pins from his teeth and dropped to the parquet floor, his forehead pressed to the wood. ‘My Lord! As you wish, of course. I beg humble forgiveness for my lack of taste and judgment.’

  Jiro said nothing. He jerked his barbered head for a servant to remove the robe and drop it in a heap underfoot. ‘I will wear the blue-and-red silk. Fetch it now.’

  His command was obeyed in a flurry of nervousness. The Lord of the Anasati seldom punished his slaves and attendants, but from the day he assumed his inheritance he had made it clear that anything short of instant obedience would never be tolerated.

  Arriving to make his report, First Adviser Chumaka noted the near-frenzied obsequious behavior on the part of the servants. He gave not a twitch in reaction; wisest of the Anasati retainers, he knew his Lord best of all. The master did not appreciate overdone obeisance; quite the contrary. Jiro had matured as a second son, and he liked things quiet and without fanfare. Yet since he had inherited a ruler’s mantle without having been groomed to expect the post, he was ever sensitive to the behavior of his underlings toward him. Should they fail to give him his due respect as Lord, he would notice, and take instantaneous issue.

  The servant who was late to speak his title, the slave who failed to bow without delay upon presentation, were never forgiven their lapse. Like fine clothing and smooth manners, traditional Tsurani adherence to caste was part and parcel of how Ruling Lords were measured by their peers. Eschewing the barbaric aspects of the battlefield, Jiro had made himself a master of civilised behavior.

  As if a robe of finest silk did not lie discarded like garbage under his sandaled feet, he inclined his head while Chumaka straightened up from his bow. ‘What brings you to consult at this hour, First Adviser? Did you forget I had planned an afternoon of discourse with the visiting scholars from Migran?’

  Chumaka tipped his head to one side, as a hungry rodent might fix on moving prey. ‘I suggest, my Lord, that the scholars be made to wait while we take a short walk.’

  Lord Jiro was vexed, though nothing showed. He allowed his servants to tie his robe sash before he replied. ‘What you have to say is that important?’ As all who were present well knew, Jiro held afternoon court to attend to business with his factors. If his meeting with the scholars was delayed, it would have to wait until morning, which spoiled his hour set aside for reading.

  The Anasati First Adviser presented his driest smile and deftly handled the impasse. ‘It pertains to Lady Mara of the Acoma, and that connection I mentioned earlier concerning the vanquished Tuscai.’

  Jiro’s interest brightened. ‘The two are connected?’

  Chumaka’s stillnes
s before the servants provided its own answer. Excited now, Lord Jiro clapped for his runner. ‘Find my hadonra and instruct him to provide entertainment for our guests. They shall be told that I am detained and will meet with them tomorrow morning. Lest they become displeased by these arrangements, it shall be explained that I am considering awarding a patronage, if I am impressed by their worthiness in the art of verbal debate.’

  The runner bowed to the floor and hurried off about his errand. Chumaka licked his teeth in anticipation as his master fell into step with him toward the outer screen that led into the garden.

  Jiro seated himself on a stone bench in the shade by a fish pool. He trailed languid fingers in the water while his attention to Chumaka sharpened. ‘Is it good news or bad?’

  As always, the First Adviser’s reply was ambiguous. ‘I’m not certain.’ Before his master could express displeasure, Chumaka adjusted his robe and fished a sheaf of documents out of a deep pocket. ‘Perhaps both, my Lord. A small, precautionary surveillance I set in place identified someone highly placed in the Acoma spy network.’ He paused, his thoughts branching off into inaccessibly vague speculation.

  ‘What results?’ Jiro prompted, in no mood for cleverness that he lacked the finesse to follow.

  Chumaka cleared his throat. ‘He eluded us.’

  Jiro looked nettled. ‘How could this be good news?’

  Chumaka shrugged. ‘We know he was someone of importance; the entire operation in Ontoset was closed down as a result. The factor of the House of Habatuca suddenly became what he appeared to be: a factor.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘Business is terrible, so we may assume that the goods being brokered by this man were Acoma, not Habatuca.’ He glanced at one of his documents and folded it. ‘We know the Habatuca are not Acoma minions; they are firmly in the Omechan Clan, and traditionalists whom we might find useful someday. They don’t even suspect this man is not their loyal servant, but then they are a very disorganized house.’

  Jiro tapped his chin with an elegantly manicured finger as he said, ‘This factor’s removal is significant?’

  Chumaka said, ‘Yes, my Lord. The loss of that agent will hamper Acoma operation in the East. I can assume that almost all information coming from that region was funneled through Ontoset.’

  Jiro smiled, no warmth in his expression. ‘Well then, we’ve stung them. But now they also know we are watching them with our own agents.’

  Chumaka said, ‘That was inevitable, my Lord. I am surprised they hadn’t been aware of us sooner. Their network is well established and practiced. That we observed them undetected as long as we did was something close to miraculous.’

  Seeing a gleam in his First Adviser’s eyes, Jiro said, ‘What else?’

  ‘I said this was related to the long-dead Lord of the Tuscai, from years before you were born. Just before Jingu of the Minwanabi destroyed House Tuscai, I had unearthed the identity of one of the dead Lord’s key agents, a grain merchant in Jamar. When the Tuscai natami was buried, I assumed the man continued his role as an independent merchant in earnest. He had no public ties to House Tuscai, therefore no obligation to assume the status of outcast.’

  Jiro went still at this implied, venal dishonesty. A master’s servants were considered cursed by the gods if he should die; his warriors became slaves or grey warriors – or had, until Lady Mara had despicably broken the custom.

  Chumaka ignored his master’s discomfort, caught up as he was in reminiscence. ‘My assumption was incorrect, as I now have cause to suspect. In any event, that wasn’t of significance until recently.

  ‘Among those who came and went in Ontoset were a pair of men I know to have served at the grain merchant’s in Jamar. They showed me the connection. Since no one beside Lady Mara has taken grey warriors to house service, we can extrapolate that the Spy Master and his former Tuscai agents are now sworn to the Acoma.’

  ‘So we have this link,’ Jiro said. ‘Can we infiltrate?’

  ‘It would be easy enough, my Lord, to fool the grain merchant, and get our own agent inside.’ Chumaka frowned. ‘But the Acoma Spy Master would anticipate that. He is very good. Very.’

  Jiro cut off this musing with a chopping motion.

  Brought back to the immediate issue, Chumaka came to his point. ‘At the very least, we’ve stung the Acoma by making them shut down a major branch of their organisation in the East. And far better, we now know the agent in Jamar is again operative; that man must sooner or later report to his master, and then we are back on the hunt. This time I will not let fools handle the arrangements and blunder as they did in Ontoset. If we are patient, in time we will have a clear lead back to the Acoma Spy Master.’

  Jiro was less than enthusiastic. ‘We may waste all our efforts, now that our enemy knows his inside agent was compromised.’

  ‘True, my master.’ Incomo licked his teeth. ‘But we are ahead, in the long view. We know the former Tuscai Spy Master works now for Lady Mara. I had made inroads into that net, before the Tuscai were destroyed. I can resume observation of the agents I suspected as being Tuscai years ago. If those men are still in the same positions, that simple fact will confirm them as Acoma operatives. I will set more traps, manned by personnel whom I will personally instruct. Against this Spy Master we will need our best. Yes.’ The First Adviser’s air became self-congratulatory. ‘It is chance that led us to the first agent, and almost netted us someone highly placed.’

  Chumaka wafted the document to fan his flushed cheeks. ‘We now watch the house, and I am certain our watchers are being watched, so I have others watching to see who is watching us …’ He shook his head. ‘My opponent is wily beyond comprehension. He –’

  ‘Your opponent?’ Jiro interrupted.

  Chumaka stifled a start and inclined his head in respect. ‘My Lord’s enemy’s servant. My opposite, if you will. Permit an old man this small vanity, my Lord. This servant of the Acoma who opposes my work is a most suspicious and clever man.’ He referred again to his paper. ‘We will isolate this other link in Jamar. Then we can pursue the next –’

  ‘Spare me the boring particulars,’ Jiro broke in. ‘I had thought I commanded you to pursue whoever is trying to defame the Anasati by planting false evidence on the assassin who killed my nephew?’

  ‘Ah,’ Chumaka said brightly, ‘But the two events are connected! Did I not say so earlier?’

  Unaccustomed to sitting without the comfort of cushions, Jiro shifted his weight. ‘If you did, only another mind as twisted as yours would have understood the reference.’

  This the Anasati First Adviser interpreted as a compliment. ‘Master, your forbearance is touching.’ He stroked the paper as if it were precious. ‘I have proof, at last. Those eleven Acoma agents in the line that passed information across Szetac Province that were mysteriously murdered in the same month – they were indeed connected with five others who also died in the household of Tasaio of the Minwanabi.’

  Jiro wore a stiff expression that masked rising irritation. Before he could speak, Chumaka rushed on, ‘They were once Tuscai agents, all of them. Now it appears they were killed to eradicate a breach in the Acoma chain of security. We had a man in place in Tasaio’s household. Though he was dismissed when Mara took over the Minwanabi lands, he is still loyal to us. I have his testimony, here. The murders inside Tasaio’s estate house were done by the Hamoi Tong.’

  Jiro was intrigued. ‘You think Mara’s man duped the tong into cleaning up an Acoma mishap?’

  Chumaka looked smug. ‘Yes. I think her far too clever Spy Master made the error of forging Tasaio’s chop. We know the Obajan spoke with the Minwanabi Lord. Both were reportedly angry – had it been with each other, Tasaio would have died long before Mara brought him down. If the Acoma were behind the destruction of their own compromised agents, and they used the tong as an unwitting tool to rid themselves of that liability, then grave insult was done to the tong. If this happened, the Red Flower Brotherhood would seek vengeance on its own.’


  Jiro digested this with slitted eyes. ‘Why involve the tong in what seems a routine cleanup? If Mara’s man is as good as your ranting, he would hardly be such a fool.’

  ‘It had to be a move of desperation,’ Chumaka allowed. ‘Tasaio’s regime was difficult to infiltrate. For our part, we placed our agent there before the man became Lord, when he was Subcommander in the Warlord’s army invading Midkemia.’ As Jiro again showed impatience, Chumaka sighed. How he wished his master could be schooled to think and act with more foresight; but Jiro had always fidgeted, even as a boy. The First Adviser summed up. ‘Mara had no agents in House Minwanabi that were not compromised. The deaths therefore had to be an outside job, and the tong’s dealings with Tasaio offered a convenient remedy.’

  ‘You guess all this,’ Jiro said.

  Chumaka shrugged. ‘It is what I would have done in his position. The Acoma Spy Master excels at innovation. We could have made contact with the net in Ontoset, and traced its operation for ten years, and never once made the connection between the agents in the North, the others in Jamar, and the communication line that crossed Szetac. To come as far as fast as we have is more due to luck than to my talents, master.’

  Jiro seemed unimpressed by the topic that enthralled his First Adviser. He seized instead on the matter closest to Anasati honor. ‘You have proof that the tong acts on its own volition,’ he snapped. ‘Then in planting evidence of our collusion in Ayaki of the Acoma’s assassination, the Hamoi has sullied the honor of my ancestors. It must be stopped from this outrage! And at once.’

  Chumaka blinked, stopped cold in his thinking. He quickly licked his lips. ‘But no, my worthy master. Forgive my presumption if I offer you humble advice to the contrary.’