The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  She opened her lips to call out, in a pique that would see him caught and executed, never mind his clever hands and lying promises. But on the moment the air filled her lungs, the latch on the screen tripped up.

  Arakasi must have heard the heavy tread of her elderly master, returned early from his meeting with his hadonra. Stoop-shouldered, palsied, grey-haired, he shuffled into her chamber. His milky eyes blinked at the twisted sheets, and his dry, chill hands reached out and stroked her skin, heated still, and damp from a surfeit of passion.

  ‘My dear, are you ill?’ he said in his old man’s voice.

  ‘Bad dreams,’ she said, sulky, but trained by instinct to use the mood to increase her allure. ‘I dozed in the afternoon heat, and had nightmares, nothing more.’ Grateful that her deft, dark-haired lover had made clean his escape, Kamlio sighed and bent her skills upon her decrepit master, who was harder, it sometimes seemed, to please than she was.

  Outside the window, screened from sight by a veiling of vines and unkempt akasi, Arakasi listened intently to the sounds that issued from the bedchamber. In relief, and an uncharacteristic anger, he silently donned his clothing. He had lied only once: never had he ceased thinking of his mistress. Over the years since he had sworn to Acoma service, Mara had become the linchpin of his life.

  But the girl, half spoiled, fully hardened to the resentment of a whore brought up to the Reed Life, had touched him. His care for her had been real, and that by itself was disturbing. Arakasi shook off the memory of Kamlio’s long, fine hair and her jewel-clear eyes. He had work to do, before her freedom from usage could be arranged. For the information she had delivered in the naïve belief that she had disclosed only a family secret was the possible location of the harem of the Hamoi Tong’s Obajan. The tenuous link she had managed to retain with her sister, used to exchange spurious and widely erratic communication, held far more peril than she knew.

  It had taken months for Arakasi to trace a rumor that a girl of unusual beauty, a sister to another, had been purchased by a certain trader, one whom Arakasi had suspected as a Hamoi Tong agent. He was now dead, a necessary by-product of Arakasi’s identifying him, but his purchase of so expensive a courtesan led Arakasi to the near certainty that she must belong to the Obajan, or one of his closest lieutenants.

  And the fact she had been sent to Ontoset made peculiar sense; it was safer for the tong to have its seat so distant from where it was contacted, a minor shrine outside the Temple of Turakamu. Arakasi himself had many agents who suspected he was based in Jamar or Yankora, because that was where all their messages originated.

  Arakasi had resisted the temptation to leave at once for Ontoset and had spent valuable weeks in Kentosani seeking out the girl’s sister.

  The Spy Master had studied his prey for weeks before making himself known to her. Turning away Kamlio’s questions with vague references he led her to believe him the son of some powerful noble, fallen to low estate because of a romantic adventure.

  As he repeatedly risked shameful death to see her, then at last Kamlio had welcomed him to her bed.

  Without her, Arakasi might have searched a lifetime and never obtained a clue to what he sought by Mara’s command. As he sat, still as stone, awaiting the dusk and the chance to steal away, he pondered how much he owed to a girl who had been raised up to be no more than a bed toy. He knew he should leave this woman and never see her again, but something in him had been touched. Now he confronted a new fear: that he might entreat Mara to intercede and buy the girl’s contract, and that, once free, Kamlio might laugh at his genuine care for her.

  For a man brought up by women of the Reed Life, understanding of her contempt came all too easily. Veiled by the bushes, suffering insect bites and muscle cramps from his pose of forced stillness, Arakasi sighed. He closed his eyes, but could not escape the sounds of Kamlio’s marathon efforts in the bedchamber to gratify the lechery of a man too old to perform. Arakasi endured a wait that passed painfully slowly. Once he was sure the old master was asleep, he silently made his departure. But with him came vivid memories and the uncomfortable, unwanted awareness that he had come to care for Kamlio. His feelings for her were folly; any emotional ties to those not of the Acoma made him vulnerable. And he knew that if he was vulnerable, so then was Lady Mara.

  The messenger hesitated after he made his bow. Breathless still from his run through the hills bordering the estate, he might have been taking an ordinary pause to recover his wind; except that his hands were tense, and the eyes he raised to Hokanu were dark with pity.

  The Shinzawai heir was not a man to shy from misfortune. Campaigns in the field had taught him that setbacks must be faced at once, and overcome, lest enemies gain opening and triumph. ‘The news is bad,’ he said quickly. ‘Tell me.’

  Still mute, and with a second bow made out of sympathy, the messenger drew a scroll out of a carry tube fashioned of bone strips laced together with cord. The instant Hokanu saw the red dye that edged the parchment, he knew: the word was a death, and even as he accepted the document and cracked the seal, he guessed the name inside would be his father’s.

  The timing could not be worse, he thought in that stunned, disbelieving interval before grief struck his mind like a fist. His father, gone. The man who had understood him as no other; who had adopted him when his blood sire had been called into the Assembly of Magicians, and who had raised him with all the love any son could require.

  There would be no more midnight talks over hwaet beer, or jokes about hangovers in the mornings. There would be no more scholarly arguments, or reprimands, or shared elation over victories. The grandchild soon to be born to Mara would never meet his grandfather.

  Fighting sudden tears, Hokanu found himself mechanically dismissing the messenger. Jican appeared, as if spell-called, and quietly dealt with the matter of refreshments and disposition of the bone token that couriers received in acknowledgment of completion of their missions. The hadonra finished with necessities, and turned back to his mistress’s husband, expectant. Hokanu had not moved, except to crush the red-bordered scroll between his fist.

  ‘The news was bad,’ Jican surmised in commiseration.

  ‘My father,’ Hokanu said tightly. ‘He died in his sleep, in no pain, of natural causes.’ He shut his eyes a moment, opened them, and added, ‘Our enemies will be gloating, nonetheless.’

  Jican fingered the tassels on his sash, diffident, careworn, and silent. He had met Kamatsu of the Shinzawai; he knew the Lord’s hadonra well. The most enduring tribute he could think to mention was not the usual one, or the most elegant. He spoke anyway. ‘He is a man who will be missed by his servants, young master. He was well loved.’

  Hokanu raised eyes dark with hurt. ‘My father was like that.’ He sighed. ‘He abused no man and no beast. His heart was great. Like Mara, he was able to see past tradition with fairness. Because of him, I am all that I am.’

  Jican allowed the silence to stretch unbroken, while outside the window, the footsteps of a sentry passed by. Then he suggested, very gently, ‘Mara is in the work shed with the toy maker.’

  The new-made Lord of Shinzawai nodded. He went to seek his wife with a weight on his elegant shoulders that the news he carried made fearful. More than ever, the heir his Lady carried was important. For while Hokanu had cousins aplenty, and even a bastard nephew or three, none of them had grown up schooled to his foster father’s breadth of vision. Not a one of them had the perception and the clarity of thought to fill the shoes of the man who had been the Emperor Ichindar’s right hand.

  The ambience of the work shed was an amalgam of dust, warmth shed into dimness by the sunlit tiles of the roof, and the aromatic scents of wood shavings, resins, and the pungency of needra glue. The corners were murky with shelves of scrap cloth, baskets of feathers, and an orderly arrangement of woodworker’s tools, among which was a priceless metal knife, imported from the barbarian world, and with which Mara had bought the undying admiration and services of Orcato, toy maker
, genius, and dissembler, with a penchant for lewd jokes and drink. Mara overlooked his coarseness, his tendency to forget her femininity and speak with her as if she were an equal, and his stink, which was always of unwashed sweat and the tecca seeds with which he spiced his food. When Hokanu entered, Lady and artisan were engaged with bent heads over a waist-high contraption of wood, around which were arrayed an army of painted toy soldiers.

  ‘There,’ said Orcato in his tremulous old-man’s voice that also held childish enthusiasm. ‘If you’d pull that string and release that lever, there, mistress, we’ll know if we’ve wasted our time.’

  His sarcasm was belied by the unholy gleam of joy in his eyes; disheveled, hot, and heavily pregnant, Mara bent a face marred by a smear of dust across one cheek. She gave an unladylike whoop and yanked a tasseled cord.

  The contrivance on the floor responded with a click, a whap, and a violent whipping of cord, timber, and wicker. What Hokanu recognised as a replica of an engine designed to hurl rocks over the walls of a besieged city did not perform its intended office. Instead, its throwing arm spun in an arc, discharging its missiles amid the neat ranks of its allies. Toy soldiers scattered and bounced through the dusty air, and rocks cracked in rebound off the walls. Hokanu ducked the ricochets and winced at the Lady’s unfettered yell of delight.

  Orcato the toy maker cackled with pleasure and from a pocket beneath his needra-hide apron produced a flask. ‘A toast to the Gods of Prank and Mischief?’ He offered the Lady a swig, and froze, seeing Hokanu in the doorway.

  ‘We’ve done it, my Lord,’ he announced, blithe as a boy in his excitement. ‘Found a way to turn Jiro’s penchant for engines back upon his own troops.’ He paused, drank deeply, and cackled again, then offered his dripping flask to the master.

  It was Mara who noticed the stiffness of Hokanu’s face. ‘What has happened?’ she asked, her sudden concern as jarring as a shout. She maneuvered her swollen belly around the toy engine, stepping upon the scattered ranks of soldiers.

  Stung on top of grief by the sudden draining of joy from her face, Hokanu struggled for words.

  ‘Dear gods,’ Mara murmured, reaching him, and awkwardly seeking his embrace. ‘It’s your father, isn’t it?’ She tugged him to her, the unborn bulk of their child pressed between. He could feel her tremble and knew her sorrow was real. Everywhere, his father had been loved. He heard his voice recite woodenly, ‘He died naturally. In no pain. In his bed.’

  The toy maker handed over his flask. Hokanu accepted, and swallowed without much noticing what brew it contained. The sting of it freed his voice, and his thoughts began sluggishly to function. ‘There will be a state funeral. I must be present.’ Too much was he aware of his pregnant wife’s vulnerability and the heir that now must not be risked. As he felt her drawing breath, he shook his head and said quickly, ‘No. You will not go. I will not expose you or our unborn child to our enemies.’

  She moved, on the point of protest.

  Hokanu shook her gently, uncaring that the noxious spirits slopped from the flask with the gesture, staining the shoulder of her robe. ‘No. Kamatsu would understand, my love. He would do as I must, and implore you to go and visit your adoptive family, whom you have sorely neglected of late. You will travel to Kentosani and pay your respects to your Emperor Ichindar. He has lost a staunch defender in my father. It is seemly that you be there to temper his grief.’

  She relaxed against him; and he read in that her understanding, and her gratitude. She would not argue with him, although he knew by the way she hid her face in his sleeve that she wept for him, and for the fact that the ugliness of politics must see her parted from his side in his hour of bereavement.

  ‘My Lady,’ he said softly, and buried his own face in her hair.

  Behind him, across a floor littered with the fallen effigies of Jiro’s army, the toy maker slipped soundlessly out.

  • Chapter Twelve •

  Warning

  The crowd shouted.

  Acoma soldiers escorting their mistress fought to keep even ranks against the relentless press of bodies, all calling out in awe and appreciation of the Lady who was Servant of the Empire, and all straining with outstretched arms to gain even a touch of the curtains that shrouded her litter. Legend held that the touch of a Servant could bestow good fortune. Since the Lady herself was not within reach, her soldiers had learned that the commoners would settle for her clothing, or, barring that, for the curtains of her litter. After one time caught off guard, when Mara had gone out with what had seemed a suitable escort before the title had been bestowed by the Emperor, and arriving at an appointment across the city with both her robes and her litter hangings in soiled disarray, her officers had learned better.

  Now Mara did not venture forth in public with fewer than an escort of fifty. Lujan decided in a sweat, even fifty were barely sufficient. The folk loved their Good Servant to the point where they would risk crushed toes, bruises, and even a blow from a spear butt to get close to her. The worst, the most unnerving aspect of her popularity, was that the masses took no offense at the soldiers’ roughness in holding them back. They shoved willingly into abuse that came near to serious injury, cheering and crying Mara’s name.

  Muffled in a plain robe, and out of sight beyond heavy curtains that trapped the heat uncomfortably, Mara lay with closed eyes on her cushions, her hands cradled upon her swollen middle. She could barely smell the temple incense that was particular to the Holy City, and carried so many memories. The perfume of the flowering trees reached her not at all, nor the musical calls of the vendors. She could only endure the jostle of the masses, and hear their deep-throated shouts. Wistfully she recalled the days of her youth, when, as a novice of Lashima’s temple, she had walked these very streets on bare feet. She tried not to think of another late time, when a tall, red-haired barbarian had strode by the side of her litter, filling her ears with impertinent comments, and her eyes with his smile.

  In the suffocating darkness behind drapes dyed red in deference to the Death God and the passing of Hokanu’s father, she pondered instead upon her husband, gone alone to attend the state funeral, to face enemies and plotting, and to determine which of his father’s friends would stand by him, now that he assumed the mantle of House Shinzawai. Heirless, he would become scrutinised by the merchants who sold courtesan contracts; he would be flirted with and flattered by unmarried younger daughters who sought to elevate their status by the chance to bear a powerful man’s bastard.

  She wished, thinking of her husband, that their leave-taking had not needed to be so hasty. But her birthing time was very near, and with the passing of a Lord so high in the imperial power structure, more than House Shinzawai must be secured through the change. The death of Kamatsu left vacant a prominent post in the Emperor’s council, and political machinations would follow until that power had been redistributed into other hands.

  More than her personal safety required Mara to visit the Emperor’s family. And although the palace’s Imperial Whites would guard her young son, Justin, with all of the vigilance they showed to the Light of Heaven’s own children, she worried.

  For since the abolishment of the Warlord’s office, with the High Council Hall filled only with echoes of the past, the palace had become the center of all intrigues. Arakasi had agents there; they would keep watch to scent out plots. But her life would be more confined, more chained to ceremony, and bereft of the day-to-day challenges of commerce she enjoyed while at home. Although Jican was more than trustworthy to handle trade matters in her absence, that fact did not console. Beneath lay the true apprehension: she did not wish to lie in childbirth in a strange bed, in the absence of Hokanu’s loving protection. Were the child to come due before she could return home, her time in Kentosani must of necessity be prolonged, until the young infant was able to withstand the rigors of travel.

  Mara’s fingers tightened over her damp robes, as if to stifle the unborn child’s healthy kicks. She was visited by an indefinable
dread of the forces at work against them all, Acoma, Shinzawai, and the Emperor, that would neither wait nor rest while the babes who were in line to inherit spent the necessary years growing up.

  The litter swooped down, and came to rest with barely a jar. Mara pushed herself upright as the curtains were parted, letting in a dazzle of light off sun-washed marble. She had reached the palace, and so deep was her preoccupation that only now did she notice that the din of the crowd had become distanced; the commoners shouted and called still, but from outside the wood and gilt gateway that led into the Imperial Quarter of the City.

  ‘My Lady?’ questioned Saric. The Acoma First Adviser offered his hand to raise her. Incomo was not along on this trip, but had accompanied Hokanu to help assess the machinations of the guests that would descend upon the Shinzawai estates for the funeral. Though still in his thirties, Saric had learned much since he had left soldiers’ ranks to take office with the Acoma. Mara had hesitated long before formally bestowing the office, and for a while had considered Incomo for the position, as he had served in that role with the Minwanabi. But in the end she had trusted his predecessor’s first judgment: despite her constant scolding of him, Nacoya, Mara’s previous First Adviser, thought highly of his nimble wit and quick apprehension. Saric was proving a good choice. Mara looked up, measuring the hazel eyes of the man, who looked steadily back, a smile very like his cousin Lujan’s upon his lips.

  ‘What are you thinking, my Lady?’ he asked as he raised her from her litter. A gleam in his eyes belied the innocence of the question, and seeing that his mistress observed as much, he chuckled under his breath. Like Lujan, he often dared informality close to insolence.