As a delegate from the most minor house approached the dais and gave his bow of respect, Jiro concluded his conference with Chumaka. ‘Your counsel seems sound. I will proceed to make the Lord of the Matawa a happy man.’
He faced politely forward to hear his first petitioner, when a disturbance at the rear of the hall turned half the heads in the room. A florid man in a purple robe had thrust his way past the door servants. These were slaves, and in fear of their master’s displeasure, they cast themselves face down in obeisance at their lapse. The man who had intruded paid no heed but rushed headlong into the hall, ignoring the astonished protest of the Anasati house servants in relentless pursuit on his heels. He swept past the seated rows of Jiro’s guests, with no more heed of them than if he had been alone in the great hall. Striding directly down the long approach to the dais, and causing the war banners to swing in the rafters in a wake of disturbed air, he skidded to a stop before Jiro. Too agitated for manners or ceremony, he shouted, ‘Do you have any idea of what she has done!’
The delegate he had displaced looked ruffled; Jiro himself was discommoded, but he covered this with a swift glance at Chumaka, who murmured the appropriate name behind his hand in a tone only his master could hear.
To control this startling confrontation, Lord Jiro said in his chilliest tone, ‘Welcome, Lord Dawan. You seem … discommoded.’
The thick necked man thrust his head forward, looking like a needra bull attempting to shove through a fence to reach a cow in full season. Nearly spitting with anger, he waved both hands in the air. ‘Discommoded? My Lord, I am ruined!’
Aware of muttering in the hall, as Lords and delegates were made to wait through this blatant breach of good manners, Jiro raised a placating voice. ‘Lord Dawan, please, be seated lest your distress cause you to be overcome by the heat.’ At a signal from their Lord, Anasati servants rushed forward to bring the distraught man cold refreshment.
Disdaining to appear to show favoritism, Lord Jiro spoke quickly, aware he must bridle the other petitioners’ resentment, and to quickly assess whether he could gain impromptu advantage from the interruption. Dawan of the Tuscobar was an occasional business associate and an unsure ally. Jiro’s inability to win him clearly to his cause had been an irritation, but the inconvenience was minor. The far-reaching ramifications of this byplay were anything but small. House Tuscobar held influence with the Lord of the Keda, whose support in any confrontation with Mara would net the Anasati a solid advantage. Jiro judged the alliance would be critical in the future, when the traditionalist plot to reinstate the High Council finally met with success.
Above the disgruntled murmurs of his petitioners, Lord Jiro called, ‘Let all who seek aid of the Anasati take heed. My house listens with sympathy to the difficulties of established friends. My Lord of the Tuscobar, what has happened?’
The heavyset Lord took a swallow from the glass of cold juice he had been handed by Jiro’s staff. He gulped in an effort to compose himself. ‘My entire fleet, carrying every last grain of my year’s harvest, was sunk!’
Jiro’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Sunk? But how?’
‘Some malignant spell spun by that witch,’ Dawan answered.
‘Witch?’ Jiro raised his eyebrows.
Dawan set his juice aside in favor of the wine offered by a hovering servant. He drank deeply and wiped his mouth before he felt fortified enough to qualify. ‘Mara of the Acoma. Who else? Everyone knows that as Servant of the Empire she has unlimited luck, and the gods’ favor. She has ruined me by sending false directions to my fleet master, ordering him to ship this year’s harvest to Dustari instead of the grain market at Lepala!’ Lord Dawan nearly wept in frustration as he said, ‘That would have been bad enough. I would merely have been reduced to penury. But an unseasonal storm hit a week out of Jamar, and every last ship was sunk! I am ruined.’ He eased his sorrows by taking another heroic drink of wine. ‘I swear by my ancestors, Jiro: I will never again shirk my support of your efforts to end this woman’s evil influence.’
Jiro rested his chin on his fist. After deep thought, he said, ‘I thank you for acknowledging the risks inherent in Lady Mara’s departures from tradition but had you said nothing, I would still help an old family friend.’ He turned at once to Chumaka. ‘Have our hadonra write a letter of credits for Lord Tuscobar.’ To Dawan he added, ‘Freely borrow as much as you need. Take as long as you wish to repay us, on whatever terms you think fair.’
Dawan stiffened, the wine forgotten as he regarded Jiro with suspicion. ‘Interest?’
As if granting largesse to the needy were a daily occurrence, Jiro waved his hand. ‘None! I will make no profit from a friend’s misfortune.’ Quietly he added, ‘Especially if that distress is caused by my enemy.’
Dawan rose. He made an extravagant bow. ‘Jiro, let everyone present stand as witness! You are a man of unceasing nobility and generosity. Your ancestors look down and are proud.’ He bowed again, belatedly deferential to the patience of the others awaiting the Anasati Lord’s attention. ‘And I beg forgiveness for interrupting this worthy gathering.’
Jiro rose. Indicating Chumaka should join him, he personally escorted the Lord of the Tuscobar to a side door, where he murmured in comradely farewell, ‘Nonsense. There is nothing to forgive. Now, retire to one of my baths and refresh yourself. Remain for the evening meal, even spend the night if you’d like and return home tomorrow.’ He appointed a slave to lead the flattered and slightly intoxicated Lord of the Tuscobar away.
As he moved to return to his dais, playing the role of magnanimous Lord to perfection, Chumaka murmured, ‘It’s strange, don’t you think? Why would Mara wish to harm a fence-sitter like Dawan? This makes no sense by any measure.’
Jiro glanced at his First Adviser in immense amusement. ‘But she didn’t. I arranged the forger myself. It was I who sent those false orders to Dawan’s shipmaster.’
Chumaka bowed low, chuckling silently. Quietly, so not one of the petitioners could hear, he said, ‘You surprise me, my Lord. You are growing into a seasoned player, both in shah and in the Game of the Council. How did you contrive to cast blame on Mara?’
Jiro seemed smug. ‘Our hadonra spread rumors, at my order. Dawan and others were made aware of the insults and misdeeds done us by the Lady over the past several years. I merely copied her methods and let Dawan draw his own conclusions.’ Stepping decisively back toward the dais, he added, ‘Oh, and by making sure Dawan heard that Acoma grain is being shipped this season to the markets at Lepala.’
Chumaka flushed with obvious pleasure. ‘Admirable, my master. Clever enough to have been an idea I wish I had thought of first.’
As the Lord and his First Adviser mounted his dais, they shared the identical thought: each considered himself fortunate to have the other, for they worked remarkably well together. When the old High Council was restored and the secret of Mara’s spy net was cracked, then would the Lady have cause to worry, for not even the formidable luck of a Servant of the Empire was going to spare her house from destruction.
Mara paced in frustration. For weeks the coolness between herself and her husband separated them like a wall. Hokanu’s resistance to her desire to see Justin renounce his ties to Shinzawai to become the Acoma heir was understandable. Hokanu’s affections were as deep as if the boy had been his own. Ayaki’s death had turned him more protective as a parent, and, reminded of that loss, Mara felt bitterness that never seemed to lessen.
She paused between restless steps, one hand on the screen that overlooked her private garden. Oh, for one hour with old Nacoya and her wisdom, she wished in vain. Her onetime nurse, foster mother, and First Adviser had always offered insight straight to the heart of any difficulty. Even when Mara had refused advice or persisted in taking risks unacceptable to the old woman, Nacoya had always seen clear and true. In matters of the heart, her perception had been unmatched. Mara sighed. It had been Nacoya who had noticed her mistress’s growing affection for the barbarian slav
e Kevin, long before Mara admitted the possibility of love to herself. The old woman’s counsel was sorely needed now. Mara attempted to conjure Nacoya’s voice, but the beloved woman’s shade rested far away this day.
A kick inside her belly ended her reverie. She gasped, pressed a hand to her swollen middle, and met the discomfort with a smile. Her unborn child had the strength of a barbarian tiger cub. Surely Hokanu would feel differently when he beheld his newborn first child. The pride of fatherhood would soften him, and he would cease his stubbornness and give in to her demand that Justin be named Acoma heir. The flesh that was of his own blood would make him understand that this was the gods’ will, that this babe whose begetting they had shared was the proper heir to the title Lord of the Shinzawai.
Mara leaned against the lintel of the screen, anticipating the happiness of the occasion. She had borne two children, one by a man she loathed and another by a man she adored. Both little ones had given her something completely unexpected; what had begun as a duty of honor in the begetting of Ayaki, the necessity of ensuring Acoma continuance, had been transformed to a joyous reality as she came to love the heir for whom she labored. It was her offspring that would inherit the greatness of the Acoma. Once a child was held, his baby laughter giving her delight, never again could family honor seem a distant, abstract thing.
Mara keenly awaited the moment when Hokanu would feel this magic for himself. The birth of their son would bring them closer, and end this cold contention of wills. Peace would return between them, and both Acoma and Shinzawai children would grow into the greatness of their future.
While Mara had never been consumed by passion for the man she cherished as husband, she had come to rely on his closeness. His understanding was a comfort, his wisdom a shelter, his wit a relief from danger and worry, and his quiet, intuitive understanding a tenderness she could not live without. She missed him. His love had become the linchpin of her happiness, all unnoticed until she had been forced to go without. For while he was ever close by, he was increasingly absent in spirit. More deeply than she could have imagined, that lack caused her pain.
The reminders were unceasing; the casual touch of his hand to her face that had not happened as she wakened; the slight upturning of his mouth that indicated humor during court that today had been nowhere in evidence. They no longer shared their afternoon tray of chocha, while Hokanu scanned reports from military advisers and she reviewed the commerce lists from far-flung trading factors presented daily by Jican. Their relationship had grown silent and strained and though Hokanu had made no issue of the matter, he had extended his practice at arms to keep busy through the hours they had once spent in companionship. No sharp words were exchanged, nor anything close to heated argument, yet the disagreement over Justin’s heirship was a presence that poisoned everything they did. Mara stroked the taut flesh over her womb, praying this estrangement would end once their new son was born.
Besides Nacoya, Hokanu was the only soul she had met who could follow her thoughts without misunderstandings. Another kick slammed her innards. Mara laughed. ‘Soon, little one,’ she whispered to the baby.
A servant who waited in attendence started at the sound of her voice. ‘Mistress?’
Mara stepped heavily away from the screen. ‘I want for nothing but this child, who seems as anxious as I am to see himself born.’
The servant tensed in alarm. ‘Should I call for –’
Mara held up her hand. ‘No, there is time yet. The midwife and the healer say another month at least.’ She furrowed her brow. ‘But I wonder if perhaps this baby could be early.’
A polite knock sounded at the inner doorway. Mara pulled her robe more comfortably over her gravid body, and nodded for the servant to open the screen to the hall. Jican, her hadonra, bowed from outside the portal. ‘Mistress, a trader is here seeking permission to bargain.’
That Jican would trouble her for a matter he would normally attend to himself, was unusual. He had managed her vast holdings long enough that he could anticipate almost any decision she might make, even those he disagreed with. Anxious to know what had arisen, Mara said, ‘What do you wish?’
Always diffident in situations outside of the ordinary, Jican replied carefully, ‘I think you should see this man’s wares, mistress.’
Glad for the diversion on yet another afternoon without Hokanu’s company, Mara clapped for her maid to bring her a robe more suitable for a stranger’s company. Tucked into a long-sleeved, loose-waisted garment of shimmering silk, she motioned for her hadonra to lead the way. The guest trader waited in the shaded, pillared hall in the wing that housed the scribes. Mara and Jican passed through the cavernous corridors that tunneled partially through the hillside from the sunny quarters she shared with Hokanu. Made aware by Jican’s quick step that he was fidgety, Mara asked, ‘Are the wares this trader offers something special?’
‘Perhaps.’ The little hadonra gave a sideways glance that confirmed his uneasiness. ‘I think your judgment is needed to appraise this man’s offer.’
Years of his loyal service had taught Mara to heed her hadonra’s hunches. When he did not immediately launch into a description of the offered goods, the Lady was moved to prompt, ‘What else?’
Jican halted. ‘I …’ Uncertainty blossomed into hesitation. He bobbed an apologetic bow, then blurted, ‘I am not sure how to treat this man, mistress.’
Familiar enough with the hadonra’s foibles to realise that questions would distress him further, Mara simply strode on in receptive silence.
In another few steps, the explanation was forthcoming. Jican said, ‘Because he is … was Tsurani.’
Mara pondered this detail. ‘From LaMut?’ LaMut was ruled by Hokanu’s brother, and most trading delegations from the Kingdom included a former Tsurani soldier, to act as translator. Jican nodded, transparently relieved he had not needed to coach her further. ‘A Tsurani who prefers Kingdom ways.’
The reason for the hadonra’s uneasiness was plainer: while Mara might bend tradition and swear masterless men to Acoma service, the concept of anyone preferring to remain without house ties on a foreign world – no matter that one of them was Hokanu’s brother, Kasumi – was too alien to understand, even for her. And that such a man headed the trading delegation made negotiations more delicate than usual.
The long, interior corridor opened at last into a colonnaded portico that fronted the south side of the estate house. The gravel path leading to the main doorway ran alongside, and there, shaded by ancient trees, waited the visiting merchant’s retinue, a small group of bearers and ten bodyguards. Mara’s eyes widened. She did not note at first that there were more guards than usual because they were so tall! More careful study revealed them to be Midkemians all, a rare enough detail that the sentries on duty at the estate entrance stared surreptitiously as they kept watch. Scraps of a conversation in foreign speech reached Mara’s ears, and the accent, so familiar, made her pause a fraction between steps. Memories of Kevin of Zun flooded through her, until Jican’s hand-wringing impatience recalled her to present obligations. Mastering herself instantly, she hastened on into the service wing, toward the hall where the merchant awaited.
That man sat correctly beneath the informal dais she used while negotiating with outsiders. Sacks and carry boxes of sample wares were arrayed by his side, while his hands rested in plain sight upon his knees. He wore a splendid silk robe recognisably of foreign manufacture: the sheen was different, and the dyes blended in patterns never seen in Tsuranuanni. The effect was bold just barely short of insolent, Mara decided, watching the man through narrowed eyes as she approached. Although this man had presented himself as a merchant, he outfitted himself as befitted the highest Ruling Lord of the Empire. Yet the man was no noble; in place of the customary house chop embroidered on sash or shoulder, the barbarous symbol of LaMut, a doglike creature called a wolf, was displayed. The man was arrogant, Mara decided as she allowed Jican to help her up the shallow stair and to her cushions.
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Still, the stranger had impeccable manners. When the Lady was comfortable, he bowed until his forehead touched the mat upon which he knelt. He paused long enough to imply deep respect, while Jican gave his name to the mistress. ‘My lady, this is Janaio, of the city of LaMut.’
Janaio straightened with grace and smiled. ‘Honors to your house, Good Servant. Are you well, Lady Mara?’
Mara inclined her head. ‘I am well, Janaio of … LaMut.’
A detail leaped out at her. This man wore gold! Mara pinched back a breath of undignified surprise. By imperial edict, all jewelry and personal effects made of metal were carefully cataloged upon entry through the rift from Midkemia. Traders from the barbarian world were often outraged as their boots were confiscated and plain sandals loaned to them while they embarked on their travels within the Empire; but the impounded items were always returned when they left. The imperial treasury had learned a rough lesson when the first entourage of Midkemians returned home without their boots, and the economy of Lash Province had been turned on its head by the iron nails drawn from the soles and changed for centis.
The trader fingered the chain about his neck. ‘I have given surety that I will not leave this behind, Lady Mara,’ he said, in response to her notice. This reminded her of his Tsurani origins, as no barbarian would have been trusted to keep his word in the face of temptation. Midkemians professed no belief in the Wheel of Life, so honor did not bind them to fear loss of the gods’ favor.
Mara maintained an outward calm. The man was bold! While such an ornament might be a modest possession for a wealthy man beyond the rift, in Kelewan it was equal to the income of a minor house for a year. As well this man knew. His public display of such treasure was a calculated ostentation. Mara waited in reserved expectancy to see just what this trader wished to gain with his bargaining.
The Complete Empire Trilogy Page 146