The Complete Empire Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  Drily, inspecting his well-made but otherwise plain traveling robe, she said, ‘I’m thinking we need to work upon your perceptions of formal garb.’

  ‘I have been too busy since gaining my office to find time for tailors, my Lady. I’ll see to formal garb at once.’ Then he grinned, ‘I doubt the old grandmother’s ceremonial regalia would fit me yet.’

  Meaning he had not an aged stoop to his shoulders, nor nearly enough grey hair. Touched by a pang for old Nacoya that held more of memory than grief, Mara said, ‘You have a free, loose tongue to speak of your responsibilities, when as far as I can see, you have already lost charge of my heir.’

  ‘Justin?’ With a startled raise of eyebrows, Saric half turned. The boy was indeed gone from his side, when he had been there just a half-instant sooner. Saric hid an impulse to swear behind a stony expression. He ought to have anticipated the boy’s restlessness, after the tantrum that had erupted earlier, when Justin had been forced to ride in a litter, rather than his preferred seat of conveyance: perched upon Lujan’s broad shoulders at the head of the procession. That in the open streets, jammed with hordes of people out to admire the Good Servant, a boy left exposed offered a tempting target for enemy assassins did not signify to his childish penchant for adventure.

  A fast glance around the marble courtyard, with its beautiful trees festooned with flowering vines, showed several archways the boy might have dashed through to hide.

  ‘Well,’ said Mara regretfully, ‘he’s unlikely to get himself killed in the palace, surrounded by two thousand Imperial Whites.’ She did not need to add that he was sure to get himself neck-deep into other mischief. And with the Emperor himself come out to greet her, to order soldiers out searching before completing the proper formalities of welcome would be an insult.

  She straightened her sash, raised her chin, and stepped forward, prepared to make her bow before the Light of Heaven.

  Ichindar himself offered his hand to help her back to her feet before her gravid form caused her awkwardness. His touch was warm, as if every bone in his hand could be felt. Mara smiled, and gazed into his face, which was lined early by care. Although still in his prime, Ichindar bore the weight of his mantle and the mark of his responsibility. He had grown stooped since she had seen him last, and his eyes seemed larger, for his face had thinned. Never a warrior, he relied on the cut and richness of his robes to lend his figure the necessary majesty of his office. Today he seemed drowned in a diamond sparkle of cloth interwoven with priceless silver threadwork. His hair lay limp under a massive, golden-plumed headdress, and at throat, wrist, and waist he wore shining gold. His eyes were warm and bright as he studied her in turn, and gave her the imperial greeting.

  Then, formalities dispensed with, he freed her wrists and removed his massive headdress. A servant ran forward, bowed to earth, and accepted its weight in silence. Ichindar, ninety-one times Emperor of Tsuranuanni, raked hands that sparkled with rings through honey-brown hair and grinned. ‘I’ve missed you, Lady. It has been long since you have brought us your company.’ His tone rang genuine, although it was no secret that he preferred male company. Driven by the need for an heir, he shared his nights with an endless succession of wives and consorts, all chosen for beauty and their prospects of bearing children rather than for wit.

  But Mara he had named Servant of the Empire for her service in securing his power upon the golden throne. She had brought stability to the Empire at large through her help in abolishment of the Warlord’s office, contention for which had dragged the Nations to the brink of civil war far too many times.

  Although the course charted since was still unsteady, and although the traditionalist faction won itself more supporters daily, Ichindar counted Lady Mara a powerful ally and, more, a friend; her coming brought him rare joy. He studied her closely, saw her surreptitious glances toward the archways, and laughed. ‘Your son ran off just a moment ago with my eldest daughter, Jehilia. He’s in the fruit gardens with her, probably in a tree picking green jomach. Shall we go there and slap sticky hands before both of them give themselves bellyaches?’

  Mara’s face softened. ‘Bellyaches would be the least of it,’ she confessed. ‘If I know my boy, there are probably sentries under dishonorable bombardment.’

  But by the time Mara had extricated herself from her train of servants and baggage, and the Emperor’s personal staff had rearranged themselves around her presence, a high boyish shout of rage echoed over the sunlit serenity of the courtyard. As one, Mara and Ichindar hurried their steps, outdistancing their escort through the leftward arch.

  They rushed down a path lined with bushes and beds of rare flowers, and reached the garden courtyard in time to hear a splash. The boy, Justin, stood on the marble rim of a fish pool, his hands on his hips, and his chest puffed out like a jigabird cock’s. At his feet, dragged back by a sodden mess of white-and-gold robes, the girl sat in the water, her blond hair plastered to her head, and expensive makeup dribbled in smears down her furious face.

  Mara’s face assumed its sternest maternal expression, while the Emperor choked back laughter. But before either could intervene in what was about to develop into a wrestling match, a third figure raced into the fray, trailing robes as expensive as the girl’s, but redolent with exotic perfumes. She also was blond, and radiantly beautiful, despite her hand-wringing protestations and an evident uncertainty about the more forceful aspects of parenthood.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Oh! Miserable boy, what have you done to my jewel?’

  Justin turned red-faced upon her, and said glibly and clearly over Jehilia’s shouting, ‘She slugged me in the face, did your jewel.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried the woman. ‘She would not have! My jewel!’

  At this point, Mara strode forward, grabbed Justin by the arm, and hauled him off his perch on the pool rim. ‘So you tripped her, is that it?’

  She received for her answer an insolent grin, and a flash of blue eyes amid a sun-freckled face. Her open-handed slap across the boy’s cheeks ended the smile, and although his eye showed the beginnings of a purple bruise, Mara gave him no quarter. ‘You will give the Princess your hand, help her out of the fish pool, and apologise.’

  As the boy opened his mouth for protest, she shook him briskly. ‘Do this now, Justin. You have sullied Acoma honor and must make amends.’

  The offended Jehilia dragged herself to her feet. Fish darted in agitated swirls around her ankles as, glowering with temper, she prepared to be indulged.

  ‘Oh, my precious, get out of that water,’ wailed the woman, whose resemblance identified her as Lady Tamara, Ichindar’s First Wife, and mother to the girl. ‘You could take ill, standing about soaking wet!’

  Jehilia scowled, her rose-and-gilt complexion flushed crimson. She stared at Justin’s extended hand as though it were a viper, while her father – Emperor of all Tsuranuanni and Light of Heaven – looked on in helpless amusement. He was better at ruling between warring Lords than at managing disputes between his offspring and those of his adopted family.

  Mara assessed the impasse, and crisply admonished the girl. ‘Take Justin’s hand, Princess. It is the only right thing to do, since you shamed his pride by striking him. It is cowardly to strike a man, since he will not hit a female in return. If Justin tripped you, you earned your ducking first, and I’d say you must both learn manners from the misfortune. Act like a grown lady, or else I’ll see your nurses thrash you both like the children you most certainly are.’

  ‘Oh! My darling should never be thrashed!’ cried the mother of the Emperor’s eldest. ‘Were anyone to try, I should faint.’

  At this, Ichindar turned hazel eyes bright with irony upon the Lady of the Acoma. ‘My life is made miserable by a surfeit of frail women. The children cannot be thrashed, or they will faint.’

  Mara laughed. ‘Thrash the children as they deserve, and let the ladies swoon all they wish. It might serve to harden them.’

  ‘Oh!’ The Lady paled. As angry now as her da
ughter, she retorted, ‘Our Light of Heaven would not dare! He is a gentle man, and his wives all adore him.’

  Ichindar’s mouth curved with distaste. Plainly, he would withdraw rather than endure further disharmony. Women confounded him, Mara knew. Saddened that he seemed so browbeaten, and also given insight into how it must feel to have been forced into matrimonial duty at the age of twelve, with a different wife or concubine sent to share the imperial bed each and every month thereafter, she again intervened.

  Justin completed his apology to Jehilia. He spoke his words without sullenness or rancor, as quick to forgive as his barbarian father. When he completed his bow, Mara caught the girl’s icy fingers and bundled her firmly toward her distraught and angry mother. ‘Jehilia,’ said the Lady of the Acoma, ‘take Lady Tamara inside and see her in care of a good maid. Then change your clothes, and come visit me in my garden court. I will show you, as my brother showed me, what to do when importunate boys try to trip you.’

  Jehilia’s fury dissolved into delighted surprise. ‘You know how to wrestle, Good Servant?’

  Mara laughed. ‘I’ll teach you, and if Justin agrees to keep you clear of fish pools, he will help.’

  At her side, the heir to the Acoma mantle gave a whoop of contentment, and Jehilia, no less restrained, shouted like a warrior. Then she spun in a whirl of wet hair and chivvied her distraught and protesting mother from the garden, while Ichindar stared after in astonishment.

  He turned toward Mara with a look of mystified respect. ‘I should command your presence more often, to marshal the conduct of my harem.’

  Mara’s smile died. ‘Great gods, no. Do you know nothing of women? The best way to foment dissension among them is to give them into the power of another female. I’d find myself marshal of a nasty, robe-tearing rebellion, my Lord Emperor. And the only problem I can see between your august self and your harem is that they outnumber you, five hundred and thirty-seven to one.’

  The Emperor of all Tsuranuanni laughed. ‘True enough. I am the most jigahen-pecked husband in all of the Nations. If the ladies were not all so beautiful, I might find it easier to chastise them.’

  Mara made a sound through her nose. ‘According to my Force Commander, who cuts a swathe through the maidens in his leave time, the prettier the face, the greater the need for chastisement.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ichindar allowed, a trace of wistfulness in his voice. ‘If I knew them better, I might be more inclined. Only those who bear me a child remain, you must remember. Of those five hundred … however many wives and consorts, I’ve spoken to only seven on more than a handful of occasions.’ His troubled tone was not lost on Mara. Palace walls were no protection from the gossip of the streets: even the Light of Heaven had heard the whispers of his lack of manly power in fathering a son. Though almost twenty years a husband, he had but seven children, all girls, the eldest only two years older than Justin. Ichindar gestured toward the coolness of the foyer. ‘Refreshments await, my Lady Mara. In your condition, it would be insult to keep you on your feet in the sun for an instant longer.’

  A haze of smoke from the funeral rites hung heavy upon the air. The acrid scent of ash stung Hokanu’s nostrils where he stood, elbow braced on the rail of a gallery that overlooked a courtyard filled with guests. After the opulent gardens of the Acoma estate and the imperial residence, the Shinzawai garden looked tiny. Guests moved along the crowded narrow paths, speaking in low voices, partaking of light refreshments provided by servants at every turn. With Kamatsu’s rank and honor, many had come who had no clan or family ties with him, straining the hospitality of the house.

  The ceremony to honor the Shinzawai departed had been rushed, owing to the heat; the body of the patriarch had been kept waiting only until the arrival of the heir. Many of the guests had reached the estates ahead of him; those more polite or less brazenly curious had waited to come until after Hokanu was in residence.

  Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the smoke that coiled still from the fire. The recitation of Kamatsu’s honors had been long, lasting well past noon. Now the ashes were yet too hot to scrape into the ceremonial urn Hokanu would carry to the sacred contemplation grove that sheltered the family natami. The air smelled of citrus and cloves and almonds, to sweeten the stench of death and of other, rarer scents, of the ladies’ perfumes and the sweet oils used to sleek the hair of the dandies. Now and again the breeze would part the smoke, and the scents of the flowers bundled in the crockery pots throughout the dooryard won out. Fainter was the ink-like pungence of the dyes in the crimson death hangings. Sometimes there came the redolence of cooked meats, new bread, and cakes. The kitchen staff were busy.

  Hokanu lounged in his red robes, his eyes half closed; he could have been a man lost in daydreams, except for the fist clenched white against the balustrade. Below him, conversations centered on political topics. Two subjects predominated: the eligibility of the bachelors who vied for the ten-year-old Princess Jehilia’s hand; and which Lord was most likely to be appointed by the Light of Heaven to take up the staff of office left vacant by Kamatsu’s death.

  The avaricious carrion eaters might have waited until the old man’s ashes were cold, Hokanu thought with resentment.

  A step sounded upon the worn plank floor behind him. His back tautened in expectation of another servant who would address him as ‘my Lord’; but the title was not forthcoming. Touched by vague dread, Hokanu half turned, his hand closed in reflex over the heirloom metal sword he wore to honor the day, and with which he had cut the red cords around his father’s wrists, in the ceremony to free the spirit into the halls of Turakamu.

  But he faced no assassin. A man of medium stature awaited him, robed anonymously in dark fabric.

  Hokanu released the silk-wrapped hilt of the weapon with guilty speed. ‘I’m sorry. Great One, I heard no chime to warn of your presence.’

  ‘I did not come by arcane means,’ said the magician in his deep, familiar voice. He pushed back his hood, and sunlight flooded over features that were lined and, today, looked almost bitter. The line of his cheek and brow bore a marked resemblance to Hokanu; and if the mystery in them had been less, the eyes would have been almost identical. The Great One, whose name was Fumita, crossed the space to the gallery rail and gave Hokanu a formal embrace.

  By blood, the two were father and son; but according to the strictures of the Assembly, ties of blood could not matter.

  Cautious of the weariness in the older man’s face, Hokanu whispered, ‘You should not be here.’ Conflicting emotions, barely contained, raged within the warrior. His father had come late to his powers, a rare but not unheard-of event. As a man in his prime, he had left his wife and young son to don the black robe. Hokanu’s early memories of Fumita were few but vivid: the roughness of his cheek in the evening as a young boy threw his arms around his father’s neck, the smell of sweat as he removed the armor worn in the soldier’s yard. The younger brother of the Lord of the Shinzawai, Fumita had been marked as the future Shinzawai Force Commander until the day when the magicians had taken him away. Hokanu remembered with pain how his mother had never laughed again.

  Fumita’s peaked brows twitched, a frown suppressed. ‘A Great One may go anywhere, at any time.’ And the dead man was his brother; power had separated them, and mystery had kept them apart. Of the wife who had given up name and rank to enter a convent, the magician never spoke. He looked into the features of the son he could no longer acknowledge, and his silken robe that the breezes fluttered without effort seemed to drag at his stiffened shoulders.

  He did not speak.

  Hokanu, whose gifts of perception at times skirted the edge of arcane talent, spoke for him. ‘If I intend to endorse my father’s policies, and stand at the hand of the Emperor, I must announce my intentions plainly, and soon. Then the enemies who might otherwise ally against the Light of Heaven must show themselves to me, as his shield.’ He gave a short, humorless laugh. ‘As if it matters. If I stand down, and let the honor of the
Imperial Chancellorship be awarded to a rival house, the enemies will strike next at my wife, who carries the heir to our name.’

  Coarse laughter lifted over the buzz of general conversation. A servant passed the screen that led to the gallery; he saw the young Lord in conference there with a magician, bowed, and silently left. Preternaturally sensitive to the scents, his surroundings, and the grief for his adoptive father that left every nerve end raw, Hokanu heard a cousin call out loudly in argument. By the slurred consonants, Devacai had wasted no time in sampling the wines. Small need to speculate what would happen to Shinzawai honor and fortunes were that distant branch of the family to inherit.

  Somewhere deep in the estate house, a maid giggled, and an infant cried. Life went on. And by the intentness of Fumita’s gaze, he had not come just to honor the funeral pyre of a departed brother.

  ‘It isn’t pleasant, I see, but you have something to tell?’ Hokanu said, his throat made tight with the effort it took to find the courage to broach the subject first.

  Fumita looked troubled, a dire sign. Even before his donning the black robe, he was normally master of his expression, which had made him a wicked opponent at cards. He twisted his thumbs in his cord belt, and sat, perched awkwardly on a flower urn. Blossoms crushed beneath his weight, lending the thick scent of greens to the sultry, smoke-tinged air. ‘I bring you warning, consort of the Good Servant.’

  The choice of title told much. Hokanu longed to sit also, but sap stains on his mourning robes might be interpreted as a sign of weakness, as if he had forgotten himself, or been overcome with prostration. He stood, his feet hurting with the strain. ‘The Assembly is troubled over my wife?’ he prompted.

  The silence stretched out, broken by the voices of the guests, raised now, as the wine heated their conversations. At length, not looking at Hokanu, but at the boards, as if they might harbor unseen flaws, Fumita spoke carefully. ‘Heed these things. First, the Assembly is as any other body of men when trying to forge an agreement. They argue, they deliberate, they splinter into factions. No one wishes to be first to suggest the ill luck of compromising the life of a Servant of the Empire.’