Daughter of the Empire

by Raymond E. Feist

  'I had planned to take Lujan . . . but he could be 'needed here.' Keyoke had come to admit grudgingly that, beneath his roguish manner, Lujan was a gifted officer. And if Keyoke was forced to defend Ayaki . . . Mara turned her thoughts away from that course and said, 'Go to Pape. If he trusts you with the loan of an officer's plume, you can help him select my retinue.' Mara managed a brief smile before fear returned to chill her. Arakasi bowed. The instant he left, Mara clapped sharply for servants, that the tray with the mangled berry be removed at once from her presence.

  In failing light, Mara regarded the screen one final time. The waiting was at last over, and the killwing stooped to its prey. Though Minwanabi was proud, and confident, and strong, she must now seek a way to defeat him on his own territory.

  The late summer roads were dry, choked with dust thrown up by the caravans, and unpleasant for travel. After the short march overland to Sulan-Qu, Mara and her retinue of fity honour guards continued their journey to the Minwanabi estates by barge. The bustle of the town and the dockside did not overwhelm Mara; the nakedness of the slaves barely turned her head, caught up as she was in the meshes of enemy intrigue. As she settled with Nacoya on the cushions beneath the canopy, she reflected that she no longer felt strange to be ruling the house of her father. The years since Lashima's temple had brought many changes and much growth; and with them came determination enough to hide her dread. Keyoke arrayed his soldiers on board with a reflection of that same pride. Then the barge master began his chant, and the slaves cast off and leaned into their poles. The Acoma craft threw ripples from its painted bows and drew away from familiar shores.

  The journey upriver took six days. Mara spent most of these in contemplation, as slaves poled the barge past acres of mud flats and the sour-smelling expanses of drained thyza paddies. Nacoya slept in the afternoons; evenings she left the shelter of the gauze curtains and dispersed motherly advice among the soldiers, while they slapped at the stinging insects that arose in clouds from the shores. Mara listened, nibbling at the fruit bought from a barge vendor; she knew the old woman did not expect to return home alive. And indeed each sunset seemed precious, as clouds streamed reflections like gilt over the calm surface of the river and the sky darkened swiftly into night.

  The Minwanabi estates lay off a small tributary of the main river. Beaded with sweat in the early morning heat, the slaves poled through the muddle of slower-moving merchant craft. Under the barge master's skilful guidance, they manoeuvred between a squalid village of stilt houses, inhabited by families of shellfish rakers; the river narrowed beyond, shallows and shoals giving way to deeper waters. Mara looked out over low hills, and banks lined with formally manicured trees. Then the barge of her family entered waters none but the most ancient Acoma ancestors might have travelled, for the origins of the blood feud with Jingu's line lay so far in the past that none remembered its beginning. Here the current picked up speed as the passage narrowed. The slaves had to work furiously to maintain headway, and the barge slowed almost to a standstill. Mara strove to maintain a facade of calm as her craft continued towards an imposingly painted prayer gate that spanned the breadth of the river. This marked the boundary of Minwanabi lands.

  A soldier bowed beside Mara's cushions and pointed a sun-browned hand at the tiered structure that crowned the prayer gate. 'Did you notice? Beneath the paint decorations, this monument is a bridge.'

  Mara started slightly, for the voice was familiar. She regarded the man closely and half smiled at the cleverness of her own Spy Master. Arakasi had blended so perfectly among the ranks of her honour guard, she had all but forgotten he was aboard.

  Restoring her attention to the prayer gate, Arakasi continued, 'In times of strife, they say that Minwanabi stations archers with rags and oil to fire any craft making its way upriver. A fine defence.'

  'As slowly as we are moving, I would think no one could enter Minwanabi's lake this way and live.' Mara glanced astern at the foaming current. 'But we certainly could flee quickly enough.'

  Arakasi shook his head. 'Look downward, mistress.'

  Mara leaned over the edge of the barge and saw a giant braided cable strung between the pillars of the gate, inches below the shallow keel of the barge. Should trouble arise, a mechanism within the gate towers could raise the cable, forming a barrier against any barge seeking exit. Arakasi said, 'This defence is as lethal to fleeing craft as to any attacking fleet.'

  'And I would be wise to bear that in mind?' Mara untwisted damp fingers from the fringe of her robe. Trying to keep her uneasiness within balance, she made a polite gesture of dismissal. 'Your warning is well taken, Arakasi. But do not say anything to Nacoya, or she'll squawk so loudly she'll disrupt the peace of the gods!'

  The Spy Master rose with a grunt that concealed laughter. 'I need say nothing at all. The old mother sees knives under her sleeping mat at night.' He lowered his voice. 'I've watched her flip her pillows and blankets six times, even after Papewaio inspects her bedding.'

  Mara waved him off, unable to share his humour. Nacoya was not the only one who had nightmares. As the barge pressed on, and the shadow of the 'prayer gate' fell across her, a chill roughened her flesh like the breath of Turakamu.

  The sounds of their passage echoed off stone foundations. Then sunlight sliced down, blinding and intense after darkness. Mara looked out of the gauze-curtained canopy to a sight entirely unexpected.

  The vista beyond was breathtaking in its beauty. Located in the neck of a broad valley, at the head of a wide lake, the estate house across the water looked a magic place from a child's tale, each building perfect in design and colour. The centremost structure was stone, an impossibly ancient palace built high up on a hill overlooking the lake. Low walls wound down the hillside amid terraced gardens and lesser buildings, many two and three storeys tall. The estate of the Minwanabi was in truth a village in its own right, a community of servants and soldiers, all loyal to Jingu. But what a magnificent town, Mara thought. And she knew a brief stab of envy that so bitter an enemy should live in such splendour. Breezes off the lake would cool the house through even the hottest months, and a fleet of small orange and black punts trawled for fish, so that the Lord of the Minwanabi might dine upon fresh-caught koafish. As the slaves exchanged poles for oars to convey the barge across the lake, a more sober thought occurred to Mara: the valley was a bottleneck, easily defended, and easier to seal. Like the poisoned flask plant that devoured insects by luring them with sweet scents, the layout of this valley foreclosed any chance of swift unnoticed escape.

  Papewaio perceived this also, for he called his warriors to present arms as another craft approached. Quickly heaving into view, the large barge contained a dozen Minwanabi archers, a Patrol Leader at their head. He saluted and motioned for them to dress oars. 'Who comes to Minwanabi lands?' he called out as the barges closed.

  Papewaio called an answer. 'The Lady of the Acoma.'

  The officer of the Minwanabi saluted. 'Pass, Lady of the Acoma.' He signalled his own contingent of rowers, and the Minwanabi barge resumed its patrol.

  Nacoya pointed to three other such barges. 'They have companies of archers all over the lake.'

  Clearly no escape was possible from the Minwanabi Lord's home. There remained only victory or death.

  Feeling her palms grow damp, Mara resisted the impulse to blot them on her robe. 'Let us make best speed to the house, Pape.'

  Papewaio signalled the barge captain, and the slaves resumed their stroke.

  The barge headed dockside, and the Minwanabi estate proved as beautiful upon close inspection as it had looked across the water. Each building was delicately painted, pastel colours dominating over the usual white. Gaily coloured streamers and brightly shaded lanterns hung from roof beams, twisting in the breeze. The soft sound of wind chimes filled the air. Even the gravel paths between buildings had been lined with tended shrubs and flowering plants. Mara expected that the courtyard gardens within the estate might prove more sumptuous that any
she had seen.

  The Acoma rowers shipped oars, and one threw a line to a worker upon the docks, where a welcoming party of notables waited. Foremost of these was Desio, the elder Minwanabi son, crowned with the orange and black headdress denoting his rank as heir of the house.

  Liveried attendants caught other lines as the barge bumped gently against the pilings. Minwanabi house guards stood at attention, and Desio strode forward to meet Mara's litter as slaves conveyed her ashore.

  The Minwanabi heir nodded stiffly, a pretence of a bow that bordered on insult. 'In the name of my father, I welcome you to our celebration in honour of the Warlord, Lady of the Acoma.'

  Mara did not trouble to raise the gauze curtains of her litter. Studying the fat, pouched features of Desio, and finding little intelligence in his slate-coloured eyes, she returned a nod of precisely the same proportion. For the longest moment nothing was said, then Desio was forced to acknowledge Mara's superior social rank. 'Are you well, Lady Mara?'

  Mara nodded slightly. 'I am well, Desio. The Acoma are pleased to honour Lord Almecho. Tell your father that I acknowledge this welcome.'

  Desio raised his chin, nettled to admit his inferior rank. Too proud to accept rejoinder from a girl who seemed, through the gauze, to be barely more than a child, he said, 'The reception for the banquet of greeting will begin in the hour past noon. Servants will show you to your quarters.'

  'Servants keep the honour of the Minwanabr?' Mara smiled sweetly. 'That's a fact I shall remember, when I greet the Lord your father.'

  Desio reddened. To arrest the awkwardness that developed, a Minwanabi Patrol Leader stepped forward. 'My Lady, if you will permit, I will convey your soldiers to the place set aside for them.'

  'I will not permit!' Mara said to Desio. 'By tradition I am allowed fifty soldiers to provide protection for my person. If your father wishes otherwise, I shall depart at once, and he can explain my absence to the Warlord. Under such circumstances, I expect the Acoma will not be the only great house to return home.'

  'Too many families come to honour Almecho.' Desio paused to quell ,a smile of malice. 'If we quartered every Lord and Lady's honour guard in the house barracks, the estate would be jammed like a war camp, you must understand. Almecho likes tranquillity. To do him homage, all soldiers will stay at the head of the valley, where our main garrison is quartered.' Here Desio gave an effete shrug. 'No one is exempted. All will be treated alike.'

  Without hesitation, Nacoya said, 'Then your father offers his honour as surety?'

  Desio inclined his head. 'Obviously.' To gain such a concession from guests in this situation, the host was expected to offer his personal honour to guarantee the safety of his guests. Should violence come to any visitor under such an arrangement, Lord Jingu of the Minwanabi could not expiate his shame with anything less than his own life. The heir to the Minwanabi mantle said to a servant, 'Show the Lady, her First Adviser, a pair of maids, and her bodyguard to the suite of rooms prepared for the Acoma.'

  He snapped his fingers to the orange-plumed presence of an officer. 'Strike Leader Shimizu and a welcoming party of warriors will see that your soldiers are comfortably housed at the main garrison barracks.'

  Shocked, angered, but not entirely surprised that the Minwanabi had seen fit to separate her from her honour guard, Mara shot a glance of reassurance at Arakasi. She would not break the peace of hospitality by causing a fuss, particularly since many of the house servants present showed the scars of old campaigns beneath the flowing sleeves of their livery. No, the Acoma could not triumph here by force, but only by guile, if survival was even possible at all. With a look of acceptance, Mara chose Papewaio for her personal guard. Then she, Nacoya, and the most skilful of her warriors obediently followed the servant to the suite assigned to the Acoma.

  The Minwanabi great house was ancient, saved from the burning and the ravages of the forgotten raids and half-remembered wars by its superior location in the valley. The square with interior courtyard of most Tsurani houses had been altered, built upon, expanded, and subdivided many times over the years. Descending the hillside as new additions were constructed, the heart of the Minwanabi estate had grown over the centuries until it was a warren of corridors, enclosed courtyards, and linked buildings that bore little resemblance to order. As Papewaio helped her from her litter, Mara realized with dismay that she would need servants to conduct her to and from her chambers, as a structure so complex could not possibly be learned at one pass.

  The corridors crooked and twisted, and each courtyard seemed the same as the last. Mara heard the murmur of voices through half-opened screens, some belonging to familiar notables of the Empire, but more of them strange to her. Then the voices seemed to fall behind, and silence like that before the strike of a jungle predator fell over the elegant hallway. By the time the servant slid wide the screen that led to her suite, Mara knew that Jingu intended murder. Why else would he place her in an obscure corner of his house, where isolation was almost total?

  The servant bowed, smiled, and mentioned that additional maids awaited her pleasure if the Lady of the Acoma or her First Adviser required assistance with their bath or dress.

  'My own servants will suffice,' Mara said tartly. Here of all places, she wished no strangers near her person. The instant the bearers had deposited the last of her baggage, she clicked the screen closed. Papewaio needed no prompting to begin a swift and thorough inspection of her chambers. Nacoya, however, seemed all but in shock. Then Mara remembered. Except for one brief trip when she had presented Mara's petition for betrothal with the Anasati son, the old nurse had probably never left Acoma estates in all her long life.

  Memories of Lano lent Mara the insight to manage. The instant Papewaio had determined the rooms were safe, she stationed him to guard the door. Nacoya looked at her mistress, a hint of relief in her eyes. 'With Jingu making surety for the safety of his guests, I think we may expect the peace of a state function to apply.'

  Mara shook her head. 'I think wishing has fogged your sharp eyes, old mother. Jingu offers his life as guarantee against violence by his people, and by other guests, that is all. He makes no guarantees against "accidents".' Then, before fear could get the best of her, she commanded Nacoya to draw a bath and make her ready for the banquet and her first personal confrontation with the Lord of the Minwanabi.

  Unlike the great hall of the Anasati, which was dark and airless and musty with old wax, the gathering chamber of the Minwanabi was all space and light. Mara paused in the gallery-style entrance to admire the view before joining the guests who gathered like so many plumed birds below. Built in a natural hollow at the very crest of the hill, with entrance and dais at opposite ends, the room itself was immense. A high, beamed ceiling was spaced with screens that opened to the sky, overhanging a deep-sunken main floor. Several small observation galleries dotted the rim of the hall, allowing a view of floor below and, through the doors to balconies outside, the surrounding countryside. Stone pillars supported the centre tree, while a pebbled brook trickled through squares of flowering trees, tile mosaics and a small reflecting pool beneath the dais. Somewhere, sometime, the Minwanabi had patronized an architect and an artist who had possessed uncommon genius. The gifted artisans must have served an earlier generation of Minwanabi Lords, for the most garish clothing in the crowd was that worn by the Lord and the Lady on the dais. Mara winced, less impressed than most Tsurani by the gown of green and orange worn by the wife. Mara almost wept at the thought of all this surrounding beauty wasted upon an enemy like Jingu.

  'The gods may have blessed this house with extreme wealth,' muttered Nacoya. 'But the divine ones left little room for common sense, I say. Think how many insects those sky ports let in, not to mentiotfdust and dirt and rain.'

  Mara smiled indulgently on her old nurse. 'Would you try to mother even a nest of serpents? Besides, I'm sure the Minwanabi cover their roof well when the weather is bad. Jingu's wife wears too much makeup to get wet unexpectedly.'

&nb
sp; Nacoya subsided, with a comment that her eyes were not that good, nor had they been since she was youthful. Mara patted her adviser's hand in reassurance. Then, resplendent in a gown embroidered with seed pearls, her coiled hair laced with green ribbons, she began her descent to the main floor. Papewaio followed her in dress armour; although he escorted his mistress and her First Adviser to a social occasibn, he moved with vigilance more common to the battlefield. In most ways, state gatherings of Tsurani were more dangerous. Beneath the manners and the finery, ambitions changed; as alliances shifted within the Game of the Council, any Lord present could become the enemy. Few would hesitate to damage the Acoma, if his own stock might rise as a result. And on Minwanabi territory, others not normally at odds with Mara's house might bend with the prevailing political wind.

  Simple in her tastes, Mara was neither overwhelmed nor impressed by displays of great wealth. Her restrained clothing reinforced the impression already formed by the Lords and Ladies in the hall around her. Most believed her a young, inexperienced girl who sheltered her house under the marriage to the more powerful Anasati. Now, with Buntokapi dead, she was fair game once again. Mara was content to allow this misapprehension to continue as she passed by; it increased her chances to pick up a scrap of information, a comment, or a remark that could prove useful. As she reached the foot of the stairs and made her way towards the dais to greet the Minwanabi Lord, she watched the expressions of her peers and took stock of who stood gossiping with whom. Her temple-taught poise served her well. She responded politely to those who greeted her, but was not lulled by sweet smiles and warm words.