Empire - 03 - Mistress Of The Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  Hotaba started as if slapped from a dream. He looked at Mara, assessing. Then his sour, loose mouth tightened into a smile of malice. 'You are in no position to make demands, woman.'

  Mara disregarded the statement. As if her officers did not stand bound like slaves at her shoulder, and as if she did not stand disheveled and entirely without the ceremonial state due a great Tsurani Lady, she let the fury of the moment stiffen her spine.

  Her composure made an impression, if not the best. Hotaba's smile widened. Even Mirana stopped her carding, as a charged and dangerous stillness gripped the airless room. 'Lady,' the high chief announced in edged sarcasm, 'I will offer you a bargain: the information you seek, against the person of your yellow-haired maid. A more than fair trade, I deem. The woman is of inestimable value, as rare in her beauty as practitioners of honest magic are among your kind. Surely the knowledge you came to find is worth the flesh of one servant, when upon your estates in the Empire you command many thousands of souls?'

  Mara closed her eyes against sickness, and her teeth against a sharp desire to shout useless imprecations. Her mouth felt dry as ashes. Who was she, to barter Kamlio's life and happiness away, even for the good of her family? Though, as Ruling Lady, Mara held that right within Empire law, still, she had to force speech.

  'No.' She at least sounded decisive, if her mind seethed with doubts. Gods, what honorless being had she become, to set the life of one difficult servant before the well-being and survival of her house, her husband, and her children! What was one wretched courtesan before all of her honor, all of her loved ones, and, ultimately, the power base of Ichindar himself? Yet where once she would have commanded a servant or slave to do as these Thuril bid, today, when all depended upon her one word, she could not demand that sacrifice.

  Into that charged stillness, while the men were too stunned to react, and Saric fought back an expression of outright astonishment and dismay, Mirana spoke. As if matters of household were of more account than lives and fates, she announced, 'I'm done with my carding.'

  But her hands were shaking as she set wool and tools back in the basket by her knee, Mara saw. Hotaba merely turned and nodded once to his wife. The old woman rose, furled her shoulders in layers of fringed shawls, and motioned for Mara to follow her.

  The Lady of the Acoma hesitated. She thought to insist that she should stay with her officers and people to oversee their disposition, as their ruler. But Mirana gave a slight shake of her head, as if she could guess Mara's thoughts.

  Saric received hasty words of counsel from Iayapa, and he bent with whispered advice. 'Go, my Lady. This culture is not as ours, and your point has been made. You will perhaps hurt the cause you came for if you stay to argue your point. Iayapa agrees that Mirana knows her husband well. Follow her lead, he thinks, and I concur.'

  Mara flashed a last, haughty glance at Hotaba, making him aware that she acted for her own reasons, and not those of any Thuril. Then, stiff-backed, she joined Mirana on her way to the door.

  When Lujan stirred to follow, Mara gave back a gesture to keep him in place. None of them were safe here, among these barbarians: and, weaponless, there was very little that any warrior could do to protect his mistress before the highlanders overpowered him. Mirana seemed to understand this, for she raised her voice one last time.

  'Stay here with my husband and lie about how fierce you are in battle and bed, soldier. I shall not keep your mistress long.'

  To Mara she added, 'Your serving girl will not be touched, rest assured, until this matter is settled.' Then, with surprising strength, Mirana clamped down on Mara's arm and hustled her outside.

  The colder air hit the women's faces with a sharpness that reddened the skin. Mirana moved at a brisk pace, forcing Mara away from the long hut with no chance for change of mind. She ducked down an alleyway where bakers finished their day's work, by the smell, and a small dog devoured crusts from the hand of a girl with plaited hair. Reminded of her own daughter, who might never grow old enough to own a pet, Mara stumbled.

  Mirana jerked her forward. 'None of that,' she said in sharply accented Tsurani. 'You were strong enough to leave your homeland, to challenge the Assembly, and come here. Do not fall victim to self-pity now.'

  Mara's chin snapped up. Startled, she said, 'What is my fate to you?'

  'Very little,' Mirana said matter-of-factly. Her dark eyes fixed on the Lady of the Acoma, watching for some sort of reaction. Mara gave none. After a moment, the chieftain's wife added, 'Very little, if you were like other Tsurani we had known. But you are not. Hotaba ascertained as much, when he offered you the bargain for your servant girl.'

  Mara's chin went up another notch. 'She is not mine to offer, even for the chance of rescue from the perils that threaten my family. I gave her a choice, and she remains with me of her free will. She is not a slave . . .'

  Mirana gave a shrug, which set her fringes swinging and tangling in the cold, sharp breeze. 'Indeed, by our laws also, she is not yours to bargain. But the Lords in your land do as they will with the lives of their servants, slaves, and children, daily, and think the gods gave them the right.'

  'They believe so,' Mara said carefully.

  'And you?' Mirana's question came sharp as the stroke of a querdidra quirt.

  'I do not know what I believe,' Mara admitted, frowning. 'Except that as Servant of the Empire I once set my nationhood above my own blood. Now I can no longer count my own blood above that of any other man. Kamlio is with me because of a pledge I gave to another to shield her as he would. My honor is no less than that of the man who entrusted her safety to me. There is honor that is mindless obedience to tradition, and there is honor that is . . . more.'

  Mirana's regard grew piercing. 'You are different,' she mused as much to herself as to Mara. 'Pray to your gods that such difference will be enough to win your freedom. You will have my support. But never forget that in Thuril, the men will talk more freely, and give more favors, when women are not present. Ours is a harsh land, and the man who shows himself as too soft will not keep the wife he has raided.'

  'Another man would steal his woman away?' Mara asked in surprise.

  Mirana's withered lips cracked into an unabashed grin. 'Perhaps. Or worse, his woman would leave his house and hearth, and stuff his blankets with snow for his folly.'

  In spite of her worries, Mara laughed. 'You do that here?'

  'Oh, yes.' Mirana observed that her guest was chilled. She slipped off one of her shawls and wrapped it around the Acoma Lady's shoulders; it smelled of woodsmoke and, more faintly, of unbleached greased fleece. 'Let us visit my favourite bread shop, where the sweet rolls will be hot and fresh-baked at this hour. I will tell you what else we do here, besides pretending to take the jigabird crowing of our men very seriously.'

  * * *

  Where the atmosphere in the council house had been stifling, the air in the bread shop held the sharp, dry warmth of the ovens, comforting in the damper climate of the highlands. Mara sat down awkwardly on the hand-hewn wooden chair. The stone floors in these chillier hills did not make Tsurani cushions practical. Shifting from one seat bone to the other to try to find a position of comfort, Mara resigned herself to another evening filled with light social chat. Like the chieftain's wife in Loso, Mirana seemed content to hold conversation to light matters, while the council of the town's elders went on without her. 'Men can be such children, don't you think?'

  Mara forced a polite smile. 'Your husband seems an angry child, then.'

  Mirana laughed, settling on the chair opposite a wooden table whose surface was grooved where shop patrons had sliced into fresh loaves over a chat with friends. Shedding several layers of shawls, and revealing white hair tied with braided cords of wool, Mirana sighed her indulgence. 'Hotaba? He's a windbag, but I love him. He's been threatening to beat me to silence for forty-two years, almost since the day he hoisted me onto his shoulder and raced over the hills to escape my father and brothers. He hasn't laid a hand on me in anger yet
. We are a people for great threats and insults, Mara. Boasting is an art here, and a well-fashioned insult will earn the slighted man's admiration rather than scorn.'

  Here she paused, while a young boy in a spun wool smock paused by the table with a tray. Mirana switched languages to order hot sweet bread and mulled cider. Then, after a glance at Mara's dark-circled eyes, she asked also for wine. The boy accepted three pierced wooden tokens from Mirana's hand, and scurried off, head turned over his shoulder when he thought the chief's wife might not be looking, so he could stare at Mara's outland clothing.

  Mirana filled the interval with small talk, while the boy came back with food and drink, and Mara made a pretence of eating. Nerves kept her from hunger, though the coarse brown bread smelled wonderful, and the drink was not the sour vintage that Tsurani veterans of the Thuril wars claimed these hillfolk produced.

  Outside the streets deepened into darkness as a cortege of young girls passed by chattering, overseen by young men, servants or maybe brothers, who carried smoking torches to light their way. Behind the shop's crude tables, the baker's boy scraped out the ovens, and the coals beneath greyed over with films of ash.

  Warmed by the wine, but with her hands in a cold sweat with worry, Mara chafed. While she exchanged inane social chat, where was Kamlio? What would happen to Saric, Lujan, and her warriors? Worse, did Hokanu even have a clue where she had gone, since the day she had left the Acoma estates for a visit to Turakamu's temple? Her departure then seemed a dream, so far removed did affairs of the Empire seem from this place with its loud-voiced, boastful men, and cloudy uplands.

  'Why did you come here looking for practitioners of magic?' Mirana demanded with a sudden, disconcerting directness.

  Mara started, almost dropping the crockery mug that held the dregs of her drink. The small talk, she suddenly sensed, had been but an excuse to bide time. She had no reason left to withhold the truth. 'I have learned over the years that the Assembly of Magicians keeps a stranglehold over the Empire's culture. Our traditions maintain injustices that I would see changed. Although the magicians have set restraint over House Acoma because of a feud with House Anasati, the sanctions are not held fairly over both sides. Anasati has been allowed to set assassins on allies of my people; sadly, my husband's father has been killed. The Great One's edict against Acoma vengeance is proven now to be pretense, an excuse to obscure the true issue. I will bring change, against the Assembly's wishes, and for that, I find myself and my children endangered.'

  'So these lofty aims are really simply the needs of survival?'

  Mara looked hard at the old woman, realising that here was as sharp a mind as Lady Isashani's. 'Perhaps. I like to think that I would have pursued the proper course for my people's best interests even if my own house and loved ones were not at risk —'

  'You turned outside your lands to Thuril,' Mirana broke in. 'Why?'

  Mara turned the near-empty mug between nervous fingers. 'The cho-ja gave me riddles that pointed to the East. A lesser-path magician who had a bitter heart toward the Assembly pleaded that I search here for answers. I came to Thuril because my line will die if I do not find answers, and because I have seen too much misery in the name of politics and the Game of the Council — many I have loved are in the Red God's halls because of our lust for power.

  Injustice and murder in the name of honor will not cease if the Assembly is allowed to overrule the Emperor and reinstate the Warlord's office.'

  Mirana seemed to ponder this, her eyes on the crumb-littered table and her hands quietly folded. At length she reached some inner decision. 'You shall be heard.'

  Mara was given no time to puzzle over how Mirana might influence the men's council. Neither did she see any sign exchanged, or sent, but the next minute the flap door to the bread shop swept open, admitting a gust of icy air. Three of the oil lamps that lit the empty bread shop extinguished in the blast.

  An ancient highlander in a heavy cloak entered. Backlit by the remaining lamp, the newcomer's features were only faintly discernible by the rose glow of the oven's dying embers. Multiple layers of woollen robes smelled of querdidra, and the ears just visible beneath the hood were hung with disks of corcara shell that twisted and flashed at each step. Of the face, Mara could see little but wizened skin under the hood's enveloping shadow.

  'Stand,' Mirana whispered urgently. 'Show respect, for come to hear you is the Kaliane.'

  Mara raised eyebrows at the unknown foreign word.

  'Kaliane is the traditional name for the strongest among those versed in the mysteries,' Mirana explained to ease her confusion.

  The cloaked figure stepped closer, and a sparkle and flash showed the mage's mantle to be bordered in costly, rare sequins of silver. The patterns seemed to form runes, or maybe totems of a more complex sort than adorned the doorposts of the houses. Mara bowed with the same respect she might show to a Great One come to visit her estate.

  The Thuril magician did not acknowledge with any gesture beyond raising one withered hand to claw back the voluminous hood. Mara saw revealed a shock of silver hair, looped into braids like Mirana's, but knotted in ritual bindings. Beneath this crownlike arrangement was the aged face of a crone.

  A woman! Forgetting manners, the Lady of the Acoma gasped. 'Your assembly of magicians allows females?'

  The ancient woman tossed her head with a click of her heavy earrings, her manner dangerously vexed. 'We have nothing like your Assembly in this land, thank the gods, Mara of the Acoma.'

  Two townswomen appeared at the bread-shop door, to complete a late errand. On the point of entering, they spied the cloaked enchantress, bobbed a hasty obeisance, and backed out into the street in silence. A young man on their heels also turned and hurried away. The hide flap slapped shut, but the room felt drained of warmth.

  'Forgive me,' Mara murmured, almost stammering. 'Lady Kaliane, I am sorry, but I never guessed —'

  'I have no title. You may address me as the Kaliane,' the crone snapped back, seating herself with a swish of robes. She arranged her long sleeves, folded tiny hands, and suddenly looked very human and sad. 'I know that your Empire's Assembly' — she all but spit the word — 'kills all girls who are discovered to have the talent. My predecessor in this office was a refugee from Lash Province who barely escaped with her life. Her three sisters were not so fortunate.'

  Faintly ill from nerves and wine that did not sit well with worry, Mara bit her lip. 'I was told such by a magician of the lesser path who hated the Assembly. But in my heart I could not force myself to believe it.'

  The Kaliane's pale eyes were deep as she locked her gaze with Mara's. 'Believe it, for it is true.'

  Shaken, and infused with fresh fear for the loved ones left behind, Mara locked her teeth to keep from shaking. Though the Kaliane was slight, and bundled up like an aged grandmother in layers against the draft, her presence radiated a power sharper than the bite of any mountain frost. Aware that her every word would be weighed in judgment, Mara spoke before the last of her courage ebbed away. 'I was told the Assembly fears you. Why?'

  'Truth,' the Kaliane rapped back. She loosed a cracked cackle that inspired chills. 'In your Empire, slaves are mistreated, and told it is the will of your gods. Your Lords contend and kill for honor, but what do they accomplish? Not glory. Not the favor of heaven, no. They lose sons, engage in war, even fall upon their swords, and for nothing, Lady Mara. They have been duped. Their vaunted honor is naught but the shackle that keeps the power of the nations fragmented. While house contends against house in the Game of the Council, the Assembly is left free rein. Its power is vast, but it is not without limit, nor has it always been so strong.'

  Touched by hope in the light of such a frank admission, Mara said, 'Then you might help me?'

  At this the Kaliane's face became a mask of inscrutable wrinkles. 'Help you? This has yet to be determined. You must accompany me upon a short journey.'

  Afraid to leave Lujan, Saric, and, worst of all, Kamlio in the hands of high
lander captors without her, Mara knew a stab of dread. 'Where would we go?'

  'There are things you must see. A council of my peers must hear your reasons and your history, and question you.' Then, as if sensing the source of Mara's discomfort directly, the Kaliane softened her unequivocal demand. 'We shall be gone no longer than the time it takes two women to talk, lest your warriors become fearful for you, and try something stupid in desperation.'

  'I am in your hands, then,' Mara said, her resolve forced over the indecision in her heart. Tsurani in upbringing, and not yet so immersed in desire for change that she could discount all the codes of her people's honor as false, still she could not escape the awareness that she would not be offered another chance. She embraced the Kaliane's option in desperation, but was unprepared for how swiftly her acquiescence would be followed up. The Thuril crone reached across the narrow table, took Mara's wrist in dry, sure fingers, and spoke a word.

  Mara heard only the first sibilant syllable. A rushing in her ears drowned the rest, fierce as the buffet of a sea gale. The floor dropped away from her feet, as did the chair she perched upon. The shadowy walls of the bread shop also vanished, replaced for an eye's blink by an expanse of a howling grey void.

  Time froze. The air went icy and thin. Mara might have shamed her ancestors and cried out in terror for her life, but the passage through the void ended suddenly, leaving only an impression.

  Restored jarringly to firm soil, she found herself standing in a plaza lit by cho-ja globes. Her wrist was still clasped by the Kaliane's hand, which was steady, whereas her own shook like storm-blown reeds. Where Tsurani cities were built upon level ground, the buildings here had been carved in tiers into the steep granite face of the hills. On the valley floor, the open square that surrounded Mara was circled by terraces, each level fronted by doorways, windows, and shops. Her eyes lifted to follow the lines of columns, buttresses, and arches, arrayed in breathtaking artistry against the backdrop of night. Totems supported galleries with wood and stone railings, some carved into dragons or the great serpents of sea and sky that figured prominently in Thuril myth. Spires and domes speared upward against starry skies, or pierced through lamplit streamers of mist. Mara caught her breath in delight at a beauty her Tsurani-bred mind could not have imagined. Never had she expected such a city in these barren uplands!