The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  The death of an elder brother had fallen hard enough on the little one without his becoming the pawn of politics. Much as Hokanu loved Mara, he also recognised that Jiro’s enmity was more threat than he would wish to place on the shoulders of an innocent child.

  The rapport shared between the Lady and her consort cut both ways; Mara also had the gift of tracking Hokanu’s inner thoughts. She said, ‘It is a lot more difficult to murder a boy who is able to walk, talk, and recognise strangers than an infant in a crib. As Shinzawai heir, our new baby would be safer. A house, a whole line, would not be ended by one death.’

  Hokanu could not refute such logic; what cost him peace and prevented his agreement was his own affection for Justin, not mentioning that his foster father, Kamatsu, had come to dote on the boy. Did a man take a child old enough to have tasted the joys of life, and thrust him into grave danger? Or did one set an innocent infant at risk?

  ‘If I die,’ Mara said in a near whisper, ‘there will be nothing. No child. No Acoma. My ancestors will lose their places on the Wheel of Life, and none will remain to hold Acoma honor in the eyes of the gods.’ She did not add, as she might have, that all she had done for herself would have gone for nothing.

  Her consort pushed himself upright against the pillows, drew her to lean against him, and combed back her dark hair. ‘Lady, I will think on what you have said.’

  Mara twisted, jerking free of his caress. Beautiful, determined, and angry, she sat up straight and faced him. ‘You must not think. You must decide. Release Justin from his vows, for the Acoma must not go another day without an heir to come after me.’

  There was an edge of hysteria to her. Hokanu read past that, to another worry, one she had not yet mentioned, that he had missed in the turmoil. ‘You are feeling cornered because Arakasi has been so long at the task you set him,’ he said on a note of inspiration.

  The wind seemed to go out of Mara’s sails. ‘Yes. Perhaps I asked too much of him, or began a more perilous course than I knew when I sent him to attempt to infiltrate the affairs of the Assembly.’ In a rare moment of self-doubt, she admitted, ‘I was hotheaded, and angry. In truth, things have gone more smoothly than I first feared. We have handled the upsurge of the traditionalist offensive without the difficulty I anticipated.’

  Hokanu heard, but was not deceived into belief that she considered the affair settled. If anything, the quiet times and the minor snarls that erupted in trade transactions were harbingers of something deeper afoot. Tsurani Lords were devious; the culture itself for thousands of years had applauded the ruler who could be subtle, who could effect convoluted, long-range plotting to stage a brilliant victory years later. All too likely, Lord Jiro was biding his time, amassing his preparations to strike. He was no Minwanabi, to solve his conflicts on the field of war. The Assembly’s edict had effectively granted him unlimited time, and license to plot against the Acoma through intrigue, as was his penchant.

  Neither Mara nor Hokanu chose to belabor this point, which both of them feared. An interval of quiet stretched between them, filled with the sounds of the estate beginning to wake. The light through the screen changed from grey to rose-gold, and birdsong filtered in over the call of officers overseeing the change in the guard – warriors who had not patrolled so near the estate house before Ayaki’s death.

  Unspoken also was the understanding that the Anasati might in fact have been the target of the faked evidence carried by the tong. Jiro and the old-line traditionalists wished Mara dead, which made his enmity logical. Yet a third faction might be plotting unseen, to create this schism between the Acoma and Anasati alliance that had been sealed with Ayaki’s life. The attempt had been against Mara; had she died according to plan, her son would have inherited, as heir. Hokanu, in the vulnerable position of regent, would have been left to manage a sure clash between the Acoma, in an attempt to retain their independence as his Lady would have desired, and the Anasati, who would seek to annex that house on the strength of their blood tie to the boy.

  But if the contract with the tong that had seen Ayaki killed had not been under Jiro’s chop, all that had transpired since might be playing into the hands of some third party, perhaps the same Lord whose spy net had breached Arakasi’s security.

  ‘I think,’ said Hokanu with gentle firmness, ‘that we should not resolve this issue until we have heard from Arakasi, or one of his agents. If he has made headway in his attempt to gain insight into the Great Ones’ council, his network will send word. No news is best news, for now.’

  Looking pale and strained, and feeling chilled as well, Mara nodded. The discomforts of her pregnancy were shortly going to make conversation difficult, in any event. She lay, limp in her husband’s arms, while he snapped his fingers and called for her maids. It was part of his singular devotion that kept him at her side through her early hours of illness. When she offered protest that he surely had better things to do with his time, he only smiled.

  The clock chimed. Mara pushed damp hair from her brow and sighed. She closed her eyes a moment, to ease the ongoing strain of reviewing the fine print of the trade factor’s reports from Sulan-Qu. Yet her interval of rest lasted scarcely seconds.

  A maid entered with a tray. Mara started slightly at the intrusion, then resigned herself to the interruption as the servant began laying out a light lunch on the small lap table beside the one she had left cluttered with unfinished business.

  As the mistress’s regard turned her way, the maid bowed, touching forehead to floor in obeisance very near to a slave’s. As Mara suspected, the girl wore livery trimmed in blue, Shinzawai colors.

  ‘My Lady, the master sent me to bring you lunch. He says you are too thin, and the baby won’t have enough to grow on if you don’t take time to eat.’

  Mara rested a hand on her swollen middle. The boy child the midwives had promised her seemed to be developing just fine. If she herself looked peaked, impatience and nerves were the more likely cause rather than diet. This pregnancy wore at her, impatient as she was to be done with it, and to have the question of heirship resolved. She had not realised how much she had come to rely upon Hokanu’s companionship until strain had been put upon it. Her wish to name Justin as Acoma heir had exacted a high cost, and she longed for the birth of the child, that the altercation with Hokanu could be set behind them both.

  But the months until her due date seemed to stretch into infinity. Reflective, Mara stared out the window, where the akasi vines were in bloom and slaves were busy with shears trimming them back from the walk. The heavy perfume reminded her of another study, on her old estate, and a day in the past when a red-haired barbarian slave had upset her concept of Tsurani culture. Now, Hokanu was the only man in the Empire who seemed to share her progressive dreams and ideas. It was hard to speak to him, lately, without the issue of progeny coming between.

  The maid slipped out unobtrusively. Mara regarded the tray of fruit, bread, and cold cheeses with little enthusiasm. Still, she forced herself to fill up a plate and eat, however tasteless the food seemed on her tongue. Past experience had taught her that Hokanu would come by to check on her, and she did not wish to face the imploring tenderness in his eyes if she followed her inclinations and left the meal untouched.

  The report that had occupied her was far more serious than it appeared at first glance. A warehouse by the river had burned, causing damage to the surplus hides held off the spring market. The prices had not been up to standard this season, and rather than sell leather at such slight profit, Jican had consigned them for later delivery to the sandalmaker’s. Mara frowned. She set her barely touched plate aside, out of habit. Although it was no secret that, of all the houses in the Empire, hers was the only one to provide sandals for its bearer slaves and field hands, until now the subject only made her the butt of social small talk. Old-line traditionalist Lords laughed loudly and long, and claimed her slaves ran her household; one particularly cantankerous senior priest in the temple service of Chochocan, the Good God, had
sent her a tart missive cautioning her that treating slaves too kindly was an offense against divine will. Make their lives too easy, the priest had warned, and their penance for earning heaven’s disfavor would not be served. They might be returned on the Wheel of Life as a rodent or other lowly beast, to make up for their lack of suffering in this present life. Saving the feet of slaves from cuts and sores was surely a detriment to their eternal spirits.

  Mara had returned a missive of placating banalities to the disaffected priest, and gone right on supplying sandals.

  But the current report, with her factor’s signature and impression of the battered chop used on the weekly inventories, was another matter. For the first time an enemy faction had sought to exploit her kind foible to the detriment of House Acoma. The damaged hides would be followed, she was sure, with a sudden, untraceable rumor in the slaves’ barracks that she had covertly arranged the fire as an excuse to spare the cost of the extra sandals. Since possession of footwear gave not only comfort, but also considerable status to the slaves in Acoma service, in the eyes of their counterparts belonging to other houses, the privilege was fiercely coveted. Though no Tsurani slave would ever consider rebellion, as disobedience to master or mistress was against the will of the gods, even the thought that their yearly allotment of sandals might be revoked would cause resentment that would not show on the surface but would result in sloppy field work, or tasks that somehow went awry. The impact on Acoma fortunes would be subtle, but tangible. The sabotage to the warehouse could become an insidiously clever ploy, because in order to rectify the shortage of leathers, Mara might draw the attention of more than just an old fanatic in the temple likely to write a protest to her. It could be seen in certain quarters that she was vulnerable, and temples that were previously friendly to her could suddenly become ‘neutral’ to a point just short of hostility.

  She could ill afford difficulties from the priesthood at this time, not with the Emperor’s enemies and her own allied in common cause to ruin her.

  The lunch tray remained neglected as she took up clean paper and pen and drew up an authorisation for the factor in Sulan-Qu to purchase new hides to be shipped to the sandalmaker’s. Then she sent her runner slave to fetch Jican, who in turn was ordered to place servants and overseers on the alert for rumors, that the question of footwear for the slaves might never become an issue.

  By the time the matter was resolved, the fruit sat in a puddle of juices, and the cheeses had warmed on the plate in the humid midafternoon air. Involved with the next report in the file, this one dealing with a trade transaction designed to inconvenience the Anasati, Mara heard footsteps at the screen.

  ‘I am finished with the lunch tray,’ she murmured without looking up.

  Presuming the servant would carry out the remains of her meal with the usual silent solicitude, she held her mind on its present track. But however many caravans were robbed, however many Anasati hwaet fields burned, no matter how many stacks of cloth goods were diverted on their way to market, or ships were sent to the wrong port, Mara found little satisfaction. Her heartache did not lessen. She gripped the parchments harder, searching the penned lines for some way to make her enemy feel her hatred in the place that would hurt the most.

  Hands reached over her shoulder, pulled the report from her grip, and gently massaged her neck, which had grown sore from too little movement. ‘The cooks will be asking to commit suicide by the blade when they see how little you cared for their lunch tray, my Lady,’ Hokanu said in her ear. He followed the admonition with a kiss on the crown of her head, and waited while Mara reddened with embarrassment at mistaking him for a servant.

  She went on to ruefully regard the uneaten meal. ‘Forgive me. I became so involved that I forgot.’ With a sigh, she turned in her husband’s embrace and kissed him back.

  ‘What was it this time, more mildew in the thyza sacks?’ he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.

  Mara rubbed her aching forehead. ‘No. The hides for the sandalmaker’s. We’ll purchase replacements.’

  Hokanu nodded, one of the few men in the Empire who would not have argued that sandals for slaves were a waste of good funds. Aware how lucky she was to have such a husband, Mara returned his embrace and heroically reached for the food tray.

  Her husband caught her wrist with a firmness beyond argument. ‘That meal is spoiled. We’ll have the servants bring a fresh tray, and I’ll stay and share it with you. We’ve spent too little time together lately.’

  He moved around her cushion, his swordsman’s grace as always lending beauty to what Mara knew were a lethal set of reflexes. Hokanu wore a loose silk robe, belted with linked shells and a buckle inlaid with lapis lazuli. His hair was damp, which meant he had come in from the bath he customarily took after working out with his officers.

  ‘You might not be hungry, but I could eat a harulth. Lujan and Kemutali decided to test whether fatherhood had made me complacent.’

  Mara returned a faint smile. ‘They are both soaking bruises?’ she asked hopefully.

  Hokanu’s reply was rueful. ‘So was I, until a few minutes ago.’

  ‘And are you complacent?’ Mara pressed.

  ‘Gods, no,’ Hokanu laughed. ‘Never in this house. Justin ambushed me twice on the way to my bath, and once again when I got out.’ Then, unwilling to dwell on the subject of the son that had become a bone of contention between them, he hurried to ask what kept the frown line between her eyes so prevalent. ‘Unless you’re scowling to test my complacency also,’ he ended.

  Mara was surprised into a laugh. ‘No. I know how lightly you sleep, dear heart. I’ll know you’re getting complacent on the night you stop starting up and tossing pillows and bedclothes at the slightest hint of a strange noise.’

  Happy to see even a moment of mirth from her, Hokanu clapped for a servant to attend to the spoiled lunch tray, and to send to the kitchen for a fresh one. By the time he had disposed of even so brief a detail, he looked back at Mara and, by the faraway look in her eyes, knew he had lost her to contemplation. Her hands had gone tense in her lap, interlocked in the habitual way she assumed when thinking upon the task she had laid for her Spy Master.

  His hunch was confirmed presently when she said, ‘I wonder how far Arakasi has gotten in his attempt to infiltrate the City of the Magicians.’

  ‘We shall not discuss the question until after you have eaten,’ Hokanu said in mock threat. ‘If you starve yourself anymore, there will be nothing left to you but an enormous belly.’

  ‘Filled with your son and future heir!’ Mara retorted, equally playful, but not at all her unusually perceptive self, by her reference to a sensitive topic.

  Hokanu let the reference pass, in favor of keeping her peaceful enough to enjoy the fruits and light breads and meats he had sent for. On second thought, Arakasi’s attempt upon the security of the Assembly of Magicians was probably the safer choice of conversation.

  Arakasi at that moment sat in a noisy roadside tavern in the north of Neshka Province. He wore the striped robe of a free caravan drover, authentically scented with needra, and his right eye seemed to have acquired a cast. The left squinted to compensate, and also to disguise the tendency it had to water at the burning taste of the spirits reputedly brewed by Thun from tubers that grew in the tundra. Arakasi wet his tongue again with the vile liquor, and offered the flask to the caravan master he had spent the last hours attempting to cajole into intoxication.

  The caravan master had a head for spirits like a rock. He was a bald man, massively muscled, with a thunderous laugh, and a regrettable tendency to slap his companions on the back: probably the reason why the benches on either side of him stayed empty, Arakasi reflected. He had bruises across his rib cage from being slammed against the table edge by the man’s boisterous thumps. He could have chosen a better subject to pump for information, he realised in hindsight. But the other caravan masters tended to band together with their crews, and he needed one who stood apart. To insinuate himself among a ti
ght-knit group, and to pry a man away from his fellows was likely to take too much time. He had the patience, had many times spent months gaining the confidence of targeted individuals to gain the intelligence Mara required. But here, in the deserted northern tavern, a man with close-knit friendships would be apt to remember a stranger who asked things that a local driver would already know.

  ‘Argh,’ the huge caravan master bawled, entirely too loudly for Arakasi’s liking. ‘Don’t know why any man would choose t’drink such piss.’ The man hefted the flask in one ham fist and squinted dubiously at the contents. ‘Tastes poisonous enough to sear out yer tongue.’ He ended his diatribe by taking another huge swallow.

  Arakasi saw another comradely slap coming, and braced his palms against the plank table barely in time. The blow struck him between the shoulder blades, and the trestle shook, rattling cheap clay crockery.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted the owner of the hostelry from behind the counter bar. ‘No brawling in here!’

  The caravan master belched. ‘Stupid man,’ he confided in a spirit-laden whisper. ‘If we were of a mind to wreck things, we’d heave the tables through the walls and bring the stinkin’ roof down. Wouldn’t be losing much. There’s web-spinners in the rafters and biting bugs in the loft bedmats, anyway.’

  Arakasi regarded the heavy lumber that made up the trestle’s construction, and conceded that it could serve as a battering ram. ‘Heavy enough to crack the gates to the City of Magicians,’ he murmured on a suggestive note.

  ‘Hah!’ The burly man slammed the flask down so hard the boards rattled. ‘Fool might try that. You heard about the boy who hid out in a wagon, last month? Well, I tell you, the servants of those magicians searched though the goods, and didn’t find the kid. But when the wain rolls through the arches of the gates nearside o’ the bridge to the island, well, this beam of light shoots down from the arch an’ fries the cover off the wool bale the boy was huddled in.’ The drover laughed and hit the table, causing the crockery to jump. ‘Seven hells! I tell you. The magicians’ servants are all running around yelling out a warning, shoutin’ death ’n’ destruction. Next we know, the boy’s ahowlin’ loud enough to be heard clear to Dustari, and then he’s sprintin’ down the road back into the forest like his butt’s on fire. Found him later, hiding out in a charcoal burner’s shed. Not a mark on him, mind, but it was days before he’d stop crying.’ The caravan master put his finger to his temple and winked knowingly. ‘They scrambled his head, you see. Thought he was being eaten by fire demons or some such.’