Mistress of the Empire

Mistress of the Empire Janny Wurts Raymond E. Feist Book three in the magnificent Empire Trilogy by bestselling authors Raymond E. Feist and Janny Wurts, now available in ebook Welcome to the final play of the game. Now revered as the Servant of the Empire, Mara of the Acoma is in more danger than ever before. Not only does she face threats from the brotherhood of assassins and the cunning spies of rival ruling houses, but she has attracted the attention of the awesome Assembly of Magicians, who sees her as a threat to their power. But Last Mara has not reached her position through luck or accident of fate. Surrounded on all sides by enemies determined to bring her down, Mara must draw on her deepest resources to secure her place as Mistress of the Empire once and for all. Mistress of the Empire is the stunning final book in Feist and Wurts’ epic trilogy – one of the most successful fantasy collaborations of all time. RAYMOND E. FEIST and JANNY WURTS Mistress of the Empire Book Three of the Empire Trilogy Copyright (#ulink_353d1651-7cb6-5dcc-b1f0-ed4c3791c196) HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street Lonon SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://harpercollins.co.uk/) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1992 Copyright © Raymond E. Feist and Janny Wurts 1992 The Authors asserts the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work A catalogue record for this ebook is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Source ISBN: 9780586203798 Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007375653 Version: 2016-12-22 This book is dedicated to Kyung and Jon Conning, with appreciation for giving us insights and friendship Table of Contents Cover (#u72ceeab2-8836-5b4a-a1d2-1cf6906ad9f2) Title Page (#u6f4afe03-002b-5d91-ac17-e1937472d743) Copyright (#u03db75e6-eac0-52bd-aadd-8da1bb97e35d) Dedication (#u8496bc23-c853-5da6-8e6a-0345f5873e98) Chapter One: Tragedy (#u0e093cb5-4a7b-5c47-9639-a8669a8a0556) Chapter Two: Confrontation (#ub3626ef4-1c7c-5a33-9062-b8b25bbe2ca2) Chapter Three: War (#u6c6c62e1-9b41-5625-8708-d1a3ee9ea0d3) Chapter Four: Adversity (#udd1c804a-e030-5be0-84b5-7e874fdeb94c) Chapter Five: Machinations (#ue78e33f1-bb27-51dc-86b1-2009dc729275) Chapter Six: Gambits (#uad4d818e-2513-55c2-a99e-681a7e67138d) Chapter Seven: Culprit (#uf8ad35d5-6a73-594f-8ddb-71de59d51852) Chapter Eight: Interrogation (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine: Miracle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten: Interval (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven: Bereavement (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve: Warning (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen: Twist (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen: Revelation (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen: Secrets (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen: Countermoves (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen: Advice (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen: Evasion (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen: Captive (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty: Council (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One: Decision (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two: Challenge (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three: Contest (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four: Homecoming (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five: Assembly (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six: Battle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven: Defiance (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight: Retribution (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine: Destruction (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty: Pursuit (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One: Kentosani (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two: Emperor (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three: Imperial Council (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue: Reunion (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) • Chapter One • Tragedy (#ulink_5cf41221-8357-57c0-ba52-081deb282812) The morning sun shone. Dew bejeweled the lakeshore grasses, and the calls of nesting shatra birds carried sweetly on the breeze. Lady Mara of the Acoma savoured the air, soon to give way to the day’s heat. Seated in her litter, her husband at her side and her two-year-old son, Justin, napping in her lap, she closed her eyes and breathed a deep sigh of contentment. She slipped her fingers into her husband’s hand. Hokanu smiled. He was undeniably handsome, and a proven warrior; and the easy times had not softened his athletic appearance. His grip closed possessively over hers, his strength masked by gentleness. The past three years had been good ones. For the first time since childhood, she felt safe, secure from the deadly, unending political intrigues of the Game of the Council. The enemy who had killed her father and brother could no longer threaten her. He was now dust and memories, his family fallen with him; his ancestral lands and magnificently appointed estate house had been deeded to Mara by the Emperor. Superstition held that ill luck tainted a fallen family’s land; on a wonderful morning such as this, misfortune seemed nowhere in evidence. As the litter moved slowly along the shore, the couple shared the peace of the moment while they regarded the home that they had created between them. Nestled between steep, stone-crested hills, the valley that had first belonged to the Minwanabi Lords was not only naturally defensible, but so beautiful it was as if touched by the gods. The lake reflected a placid sky, the waters rippled by the fast oars of a messenger skiff bearing dispatches to factors in the Holy City. There, grain barges poled by chanting slaves delivered this year’s harvest to warehouses for storage until the spring floods allowed transport downriver. The dry autumn breeze rippled golden grass, and the morning sun lit the walls of the estate house like alabaster. Beyond, in a natural hollow, Force Commanders Lujan and Xandia drilled a combined troop of Acoma and Shinzawai warriors. Since Hokanu would one day inherit his father’s title, his marriage to Mara had not merged the two houses. Warriors in Acoma green marched in step with others in Shinzawai blue, the ranks patched black, here and there, by divisions of insectoid cho-ja. Along with the Minwanabi lands, Lady Mara had gained an alliance with two additional hives and with them the fighting strength of three more companies of warriors bred by their queens for battle. An enemy foolish enough to launch an assault would invite swift annihilation. Mara and Hokanu, with loyal vassals and allies, between them commanded a standing army unsurpassed in the Nations. Only the Light of Heaven’s own Imperial Whites, with levies from other houses under his sovereignty, would rival these two armies. And as if fine troops and a near-impregnable fortress did not in themselves secure peace, the title Servant of the Empire, bestowed upon Mara for her services to Tsuranuanni, gave her honorary adoption into the Emperor’s own family. The Imperial Whites were as likely to march in her defense, for by the honor central to Tsurani culture, insult or threat to her was as an offense visited upon the Light of Heaven’s blood family. ‘You seem delightfully self-satisfied this morning, wife,’ Hokanu said in her ear. Mara tilted her head back into his shoulder, her lips parted for his kiss. If, deep in her heart, she missed the wild passion she had known with the red-haired barbarian slave who had fathered Justin, she had come to terms with that loss. Hokanu was a kindred spirit who shared her political shrewdness and inclination toward innovation. He was quick witted, kind, and devoted to her, as well as tolerant of her headstrong nature, as few men of her culture were inclined to be. With him, Mara shared voice as an equal. Marriage had brought a deep and abiding contentment, and though her interest in the Great Game of the Council had lessened, she no longer played out of fear. Hokanu’s kiss warmed the moment like wine, until a high-pitched shout split the quiet. Mara straightened up from Hokanu’s embrace, her smile mirrored in her husband’s dark eyes. ‘Ayaki,’ they concluded simultaneously. The next moment, galloping hoof beats thundered down the trail by the lake. Hokanu tightened his arm around his wife’s shoulder as the two of them leaned out to view the antics of Mara’s older son and heir. A coal black horse burst through the gap in the trees, mane and tail flying in the wind. Green tassels adorned its bridle, and a pearl-stitched breastplate kept the saddle from sliding backward along its lean length of barrel. Crouched in the lacquer-worked stirrups was a boy, recently turned twelve, and as raven haired as his mount. He reined the gelding into a turn and charged toward Mara’s litter, his face flushed with the thrill of speed, and his fine, sequin stitched robe flying like a banner behind. ‘He’s becoming quite the bold rider,’ Hokanu said admiringly. ‘And the birthday present appears to please him.’ Mara watched, a glow of pleasure on her face, as the boy reined in the mount upon the path. Ayaki was her joy, the person she loved most in life. The black gelding tossed its head in protest. It was spirited, and eager to run. Still not entirely comfortable with the huge animals imported from the barbarian world, Mara held her breath in apprehension. Ayaki had inherited a wild streak from his father, and in the years since his narrow escape from an assassin’s knife, a restless mood sometimes claimed him. At times he seemed to taunt death, as if by defying danger he could reaffirm the life in his veins. But today was not such a moment, and the gelding had been selected for obedience as well as fleetness. It snorted a gusty breath of air and yielded to the rein, falling into stride alongside Mara’s litter bearers, who overcame their inclination to move away from the large animal. The Lady looked up as boy and horse filled her vision. Ayaki would be tall, the legacy of both his grandfathers. He had inherited the Acoma tendency toward leanness, and all of his father’s stubborn courage. Although Hokanu was not his blood father, the two shared friendship and respect. Ayaki was a boy any parent could be proud of, and he was already showing the wits he would need when he reached adulthood and entered the Game of the Council as Lord of the Acoma in his own right. ‘Young show-off,’ Hokanu teased. ‘Our bearers might be the only ones in the Empire to be granted the privilege of sandals, but if you think we should race you to the meadows, we’ll certainly have to refuse.’ Ayaki laughed. His dark eyes fixed on his mother, filled with the elation of the moment. ‘Actually, I was going to ask Lax’l if I might try our speed against a cho-ja. It would be interesting to know whether his warriors could overtake a troop of the barbarians’ cavalry.’ ‘If there was a war, which there is not at the moment, gods be praised,’ Hokanu said on a note a shade more serious. ‘Take care you mind your manners, and don’t offend Force Commander Lax’l’s dignity when you ask.’ Ayaki’s grin widened. Having grown up around the alien cho-ja, he was not at all intimidated by their strange ways. ‘Lax’l still has not forgiven me for handing him a jomach fruit with a stone in it.’ ‘He has,’ Mara interjected. ‘But after that, he grew wise to your tricks, which is well. The cho-ja don’t have the same appreciation of jokes that humans do.’ Looking at Hokanu, she said, ‘In fact, I don’t think they understand our humor.’ Ayaki made a face, and the black curvetted under him. The litter bearers swerved away from its dancing hooves, and the jostle disturbed young Justin. He awakened with a cry of infant outrage. The dark horse shied at the noise. Ayaki held the animal with a firm hand, but the spirited gelding backed a few steps. Hokanu kept a passive face, though he felt the urge to laugh at the boy’s fierce determination and control. Justin delivered an energetic kick into his mother’s stomach. She bent forward, scooped him up in her arms. Then something sped past Hokanu’s ear, from behind him, causing the hangings of the litter to flutter. A tiny hole appeared in the silk where Mara’s head had been an instant before. Hokanu threw his body roughly against those of his wife and foster child and twisted to look in the other direction. Within the shadows of the bushes beside the path, something black moved. Instincts honed in battle pressed Hokanu to unthinking action. He pushed his wife and younger child out of the litter, keeping his body across them as a shield. His sudden leap overturned the litter, giving them further cover. ‘The brush!’ he shouted as the bearers were sent sprawling. Guards drew their blades in readiness to defend their mistress. But seeing no clear target to attack, they hesitated. Mara exclaimed in puzzlement from beneath a tangle of cushions and torn curtains, over the noise of Justin’s wails. ‘What –’ To the guards, Hokanu shouted, ‘Behind the akasi bushes!’ The horse stamped, as if at a stinging fly. Ayaki felt his gelding shudder under him. Its ears flattened, and it shook its heavy mane, while he worked the reins to soothe it. ‘Easy, big fellow. Stand easy.’ His stepfather’s warning failed to reach him, so intent was he on steadying his mount. Hokanu glanced over the litter. The guards now rushed the bushes he had indicated. As he turned to check for possible attack from the other quarter, he saw Ayaki frantically trying to calm a horse grown dangerously over excited. A sparkle of lacquer in the sunlight betrayed a tiny dart protruding from the gelding’s flank. ‘Ayaki! Get off!’ His horse gave a vicious kick. The dart in its hide had done its work, and nerve poison coursed through the beast’s bloodstream. Its eyes rolled, showing wide rings of white. It reared up, towering, and a near-human scream shrilled from its throat. Hokanu sprang away from the litter. He grabbed for the gelding’s rein, but slashing hooves forced him back. He dodged, tried another grab, and missed as the horse twisted. Familiar enough with horseflesh to know this animal had gone berserk, he screamed to the boy who clung with both hands locked around the beast’s neck. ‘Ayaki! Jump off! Do it now, boy!’ ‘No,’ cried the child, not in defiance, but bravely. ‘I can quiet him!’ Hokanu leaped for the reins again, frightened beyond thought for his own safety. The boy’s concern might have been justified if the horse had simply been scared. But Hokanu had once seen the effects of a poison dart; he recognised the horse’s shivering flesh and sudden lack of coordination for what they were: the symptoms of fast-acting venom. Had the dart struck Mara, death would have taken seconds. In an animal ten times her size, the end would be slower, and brutally painful. The horse bellowed its agony, and a spasm shook its great frame. It bared yellow teeth and fought the bit, while Hokanu again missed his grip. ‘Poison, Ayaki!’ he shouted over the noise of the frantic horse. Hokanu lunged to catch the stirrup, hoping to snatch the boy clear. The horse’s forelegs stiffened, bracing outward as the muscles locked into extension. Then its quarters collapsed, and it toppled, the boy caught like a burr underneath. The thud of the heavy body striking earth mingled with Mara’s scream. Ayaki refused to leap free at the last. Still riding his horse, he was swept sideways, his neck whipped back as the force of the fall threw him across the path. The horse shuddered and rolled over upon the boy. Ayaki made no sound. Hokanu avoided a hedge of thrashing hooves as he darted around the tormented animal. He reached the boy’s side in a bound, too late. Trapped under the weight of dying, shivering horseflesh, the child looked too pale to be real. His dark eyes turned to Hokanu’s, and his one free hand reached out to grip that of his foster father’s a heartbeat ahead of death. Hokanu felt the small, dirty fingers go limp inside his own. He clung on in a rage of denial. ‘No!’ he shouted, as if in appeal to the gods. Mara’s cries rang in his ears, and he was aware of the warriors from her honor guard, jostling him as they labored to shift the dead horse. The gelding was rolled aside, the rush of air as its lungs deflated moaning through its vocal cords. For Ayaki, there would be no such protest at shattering, untimely death. The gelding’s withers had crushed his chest, and the ribs stood up from mangled flesh like the broken shards of swords. The young face with its too white cheeks stared yet, open-eyed and surprised, at the untroubled sky overhead. The fingers that had reached out to a trusted foster father to stave off the horror of the dark lay empty, open, the scabbed remains of a blister on one thumb a last testimony to diligent practice with a wooden sword. This boy would never know the honors or the horrors of a battle, or the sweet kiss of his first maid, or the pride and responsibility of the Lord’s mantle that had been destined one day to be his. The finality of sudden ending left pain like a bleeding wound. Hokanu knew grief and stunned disbelief. His mind worked through the shock only out of reflex trained on the fields of war. ‘Cover the child with your shield,’ he ordered. ‘His mother must not see him like this.’ But the words left numbed lips too late. Mara had rushed after him, and he felt the flurry of her silken robes against his calf as she flung herself on her knees by her son. She reached out to embrace him, to raise him up from the dusty ground as if through sheer force of love she could restore him to life. But her hands froze in the air over the bloody rags of flesh that had been Ayaki’s body. Her mouth opened without sound. Something crumpled inside her. On instinct, Hokanu caught her back and bundled her against his shoulder. ‘He’s gone to the Red God’s halls,’ he murmured. Mara did not respond. Hokanu felt the rapid beat of her heart under his hands. Only belatedly did he notice the scuffle in the brush beside the trail. Mara’s honor guard had thrown themselves with a vengeance upon the black clothed body of the assassin. Before Hokanu could gather the wits to order restraint – for, alive, the man might be made to say which enemy had hired him – the warriors made an end of the issue. Their swords rose and fell, bright red. In seconds Ayaki’s killer lay hacked like a needra bullock slaughtered in a butcher’s stall. Hokanu felt pity for the man. Through the blood, he noted the short black shirt and trousers, the red-dyed hands, as the soldiers turned the body over. The headcloth that hid all but the eyes of the man, was pulled aside to reveal a blue tattoo upon the left cheek. This mark would only be worn by a member of the Hamoi Tong, a brotherhood of assassins. Hokanu stood slowly. It did not matter that the soldiers had dispatched the killer: the assassin would have died gladly before divulging information. The tong operated to a strict code of secrecy, and it was certain the murderer would not know who had paid his leader for this attack. And the only name that mattered was that of the man who had hired the Hamoi Brotherhood’s services. In a cold corner of his mind, Hokanu understood that this attempt upon Mara’s life had not come cheaply. This man could not have hoped to survive his mission, and a suicide killing would be worth a fortune in metal. ‘Search the corpse, and track his path through the estates,’ he heard himself saying in a voice hardened by the emotions that seethed inside. ‘See if you can find any clues as to who might have hired the tong.’ The Acoma Strike Leader in command bowed to the master, and issued sharp orders to his men. ‘Leave a guard over the boy’s body,’ Hokanu added. He bent to comfort Mara, unsurprised that she was still speechless, fighting horror and disbelief. Her husband did not fault her for being unable to keep composure and show proper Tsurani impassivity. Ayaki had been all the family she had known for many years; she had no other blood kindred. Her life before his birth had already been jarred by too much loss and death. He cradled her small, shivering body against his own, and added the necessary instructions concerning the boy. But when the arrangements were complete and Hokanu tenderly tried to draw Mara away, she fought him. ‘No!’ she said in strangled pain. ‘I will not leave him here alone!’ ‘My Lady, Ayaki is beyond our help. He already stands in the Red God’s halls. Despite his years, he met death courageously. He will be welcomed.’ He stroked her dark hair, dampened with tears, and tried to calm her. ‘You would do better inside with loved ones around you, and Justin in the care of his nurses.’ ‘No,’ Mara repeated, a note in her voice that he instinctively knew not to cross. ‘I won’t leave.’ And though she did after a time consent to have her surviving child sent back to the estate house under protection of a company of warriors, she sat through the heat of the morning on the dusty soil, staring at the stilled face of her firstborn. Hokanu never left her. The stinks of death did not drive him away, nor the flies that swarmed and buzzed and sucked at the eyes of the seeping corpse of the gelding. Controlled as if on a battlefield, he faced the worst, and coped. In quiet tones he sent a runner slave to fetch servants, and a small silk pavilion to offer shade. Mara never looked aside as the awning was set up above her. As though the people around her did not exist, she sifted torn earth through her fingers, until a dozen of her best warriors arrived in ceremonial armor to bear her fallen son away. No one argued with Hokanu’s suggestion that the boy deserved battlefield honors. Ayaki had died of an enemy’s dart, as surely as if the poison had struck his own flesh. He had refused to abandon his beloved horse, and such courage and responsibility in one so young merited recognition. Mara watched, her expression rigid as porcelain, as the warriors lifted her son’s body and set it on a bier bedecked with streamers of Acoma green, a single one scarlet, in acknowledgment of the Red God who gathers in all life. The morning breeze had stilled, and the warriors sweated at their task. Hokanu helped Mara to her feet, willing her not to break. He knew the effort it took to maintain his own composure, and not just for the sake of Ayaki. Inside his heart, he bled also for Mara, whose suffering could scarcely be imagined. He steadied her steps as she moved beside the bier, and the slow cortege wound its way downslope, toward the estate house that only hours earlier had seemed a place blessed by felicity. It seemed a crime against nature, that the gardens should still be so lush, and the lakeshore so verdant and beautiful, and the boy on the bier be so bloody and broken and still. The honor bearers drew up before the front doorway used for ceremonial occasions. Shadowed by the immense stone portal stood the household’s most loyal servants. One by one they bowed to the bier, to pay young Ayaki their respects. They were led by Keyoke, First Adviser for War, his hair silvered with age, the crutch that enabled him to walk after battle wounds cost him his leg unobtrusively tucked into a fold of his formal mantle; as he intoned the ritual words of sympathy, he looked upon Mara with the grief a father might show, locked behind dark eyes and an expression like old wood. After him waited Lujan, the Acoma Force Commander, his usual rakish smile vanished and his steady gaze spoiled by his blinking to hold back tears. A warrior to the core, he scarcely managed to maintain his bearing. He had taught the boy on the bier to spar with a sword, and only that morning had praised his developing skills. He touched Mara’s hand as she passed. ‘Ayaki may have been only twelve years of age, my Lady, but he already was an exemplary warrior.’ The mistress barely nodded in response. Guided by Hokanu, she passed on to the hadonra next in line. Small, and mouse-shy, Jican looked desolate. He had recently succeeded in intriguing the volatile Ayaki with the arts of estate finance. Their games using shell counters to represent the marketable Acoma trade goods would no longer clutter the breakfast nook off the pantry. Jican stumbled over the formal words of sympathy to his mistress. His earnest brown eyes seemed to reflect her pain as she and her husband passed on, to her young adviser Saric, and his assistant, Incomo. Both were later additions to the household; but Ayaki had won their affection no less than the others’. The condolences they offered to Mara were genuine, but she could not reply. Only Hokanu’s hand on her elbow kept her from stumbling as she mounted the stair and entered the corridor. The sudden step into shadow caused Hokanu to shiver. For the first time, the beautifully tiled stonework did not offer him the feeling of shelter. The beautiful painted screens he and Mara had commissioned did not warm him to admiration. Instead he felt gnawing doubt; had young Ayaki’s death been an expression of the gods’ displeasure, that Mara should claim as spoils the properties of her fallen enemies? The Minwanabi who had once walked these halls had sworn blood feud against the Acoma. Eschewing tradition, Mara had not buried their natami, the talisman stone that secured the spirits of the dead to life’s Wheel as long as it stood in sunlight. Could the lingering shades of vanquished enemies visit ill luck on her and her children? Afraid for young Justin’s safety, and inwardly reprimanding himself for giving credence to superstitions, Hokanu focused upon Mara. Where death and loss had always hardened her to courage and action, now she seemed utterly devastated. She saw the boy’s corpse into the great hall, her steps like those of a mannequin animated by a magician’s spell. She sat motionless at the bier side while servants and maids bathed her child’s torn flesh, and robed him in the silks and jewels that were his heritage as heir of a great house. Hokanu hovered nearby, aching with a sense of his own uselessness. He had food brought, but his lady would not eat. He asked for a healer to make up a soporific, expecting, even hoping, to provoke an angry response. Mara dully shook her head and pushed the cup away. The shadows on the floor lengthened as the sun crossed the sky, and the windows in the ceiling admitted steepening angles of light. When the scribe sent by Jican tapped discreetly on the main door a third time, Hokanu at last took charge and told the man to seek out Saric or Incomo, to make up the list of noble houses who should be informed of the tragedy. Plainly Mara was not up to making the decision herself. Her only movement, for hours, had been to take the cold, stiff fingers of her son in her own. Lujan arrived near dusk, his sandals dusty, and more weariness in his eyes than he had ever shown on campaign. He bowed to his mistress and her consort and awaited permission to speak. Mara’s eyes remained dully fixed on her son. Hokanu reached out and touched her rigid shoulder. ‘My love, your Force Commander has news.’ The Lady of the Acoma stirred, as if roused from across a great distance. ‘My son is dead,’ she said faintly. ‘By the mercy of all the gods, it should have been me.’ Rent to the heart by compassion, Hokanu stroked back a fallen wisp of her hair. ‘If the gods were kind, the attack should never have happened.’ Then, as he saw that his Lady had slipped back into her stupor, he faced her officer. The eyes of both men met, anguished. They had seen Mara enraged, hurt, even in terror of her life. She had always responded with spirit and innovation. This apathy was not like her, and all who loved her feared that a portion of her spirit might have perished along with her son. Hokanu endeavored to shoulder as much of the burden as possible. ‘Tell me what your men have found, Lujan.’ Had Mara’s Force Commander been a more tradition-bound man, he would have refused; while Hokanu was a noble, he was not master of the Acoma. But the Shinzawai faction of the household was sworn to alliance with the Acoma, and Mara was in no condition to make critical decisions. Lujan released an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. The strengths of the Shinzawai heir were considerable, and the news Lujan brought was not cheering. ‘My Lord, our warriors searched the corpse to no avail. Our best trackers joined the search and, in a hollow where the assassin had apparently been sleeping, found this.’ He offered a round shell token, painted scarlet and yellow, and incised with the triangular sigil of House Anasati. Hokanu took the object with a touch that bespoke disgust. The token was the sort a Ruling Lord might give a messenger as proof that an important errand had been carried out. Such a badge was inappropriate for an enemy to entrust to an assassin; but then, the Lord of the Anasati made no secret of his hatred for Mara. Jiro was powerful, and openly allied with houses who wished to abolish the Emperor’s new policies. He was a scholar rather than a man of war, and though he was too clever to indulge in crude gestures, Mara had once slighted his manhood: she had chosen his younger brother for her first husband, and since that day, Jiro had shown open animosity. Still, the shell counter was blatantly unsubtle, for a working of the Great Game. And the Hamoi Tong was too devious a brotherhood to consent to the folly of carrying evidence of which Lord or family might have hired it. Its history extended back for centuries, and its policies were cloaked in secrecy. To buy a death from it ensured absolute discretion. The token could be a play designed to throw blame upon the Anasati. Hokanu raised concerned eyes to Lujan. ‘You think Lord Jiro was responsible for this attack?’ His query was less a question than an implied expression of doubt. That Lujan also had reservations about the placement of the token was evident as he drew breath to reply. But the name of the Anasati Lord had pierced through Mara’s lethargy. ‘Jiro did this?’ She spun from Ayaki’s body and saw the red-and-yellow disk in Hokanu’s hand. Her face contorted into a frightening mask of fury. ‘The Anasati shall be as dust in the wind. Their natami will be buried in offal, and their spirits be consigned to the dark. I will show them less mercy than I did the Minwanabi!’ Her hands clenched into fists. She stared without seeing between her husband and her Force Commander, as though her detested enemy could be made manifest through the force of her hatred. ‘Not even that will pay for the blood of my son. Not even that.’ ‘Lord Jiro might not be responsible,’ Lujan offered, his usually firm voice torn by grief. ‘You were the target, not Ayaki. The boy is the nephew of the Anasati Lord, after all. The tong assassin could have been sent by any of the Emperor’s enemies.’ But Mara seemed not to hear. ‘Jiro will pay. My son will be avenged.’ ‘Do you think Lord Jiro was responsible?’ Hokanu repeated to the Force Commander. That the young Anasati heir still felt as he did, even after inheriting the mantle and power that had been his father’s, bespoke stubborn, and childish pride. A mature mind would no longer nurse such a grudge; but in vain arrogance, the Anasati Lord might well wish the world to know whose hand had contracted for Mara’s downfall. Except that since Mara was Servant of the Empire, her popularity was too widespread. Fool Jiro might be, over slighted manhood, but surely not so much that he would invite the Emperor’s wrath. Lujan turned dark eyes toward Hokanu. ‘That bit of shell is all the evidence we have. Its very obviousness might be subtle, as if by calling attention to House Anasati, we might dismiss them at once and look elsewhere for the culprits.’ Fury coiled beneath his words. He, too, wanted to strike in anger at the outrage that had been committed. ‘It matters very little what I think,’ he finished grimly. For honor demanded that he do his Lady’s will, absolutely and without question. If Mara asked him to muster the Acoma garrison and march suicidally to war, he would obey, with all his heart and will. Dusk dimmed the skylights in the great hall. Servants entered on quiet feet and lit the lamps arrayed around Ayaki’s bier. Scented smoke sweetened the air. The play of warm light softened death’s pallor, and shadow veiled the misshapen lumps of the injuries beneath the silk robes. Mara sat alone in vigil. She regarded her son’s oval face, and the coal-dark hair that, for the first time she could remember, had stayed combed for more than an hour. Ayaki had been all of her future, until that moment of the gelding’s crushing fall. He had been her hopes, her dreams, and more: the future guardian of her ancestors and the continuance of the Acoma name. Her complacence had killed him. Mara clenched white fingers in her lap. She never, ever, should have lulled herself into belief that her enemies could not touch her. Her guilt at this lapse in vigilance would follow her all her days. Yet how bleak any contemplation of tomorrow had become. At her side lay a tray with the picked-over remains of a meal; the food had no taste that she could recall. Hokanu’s solicitude had not comforted; she knew him too well, and the echoes of her own pain and anger she could sense behind his words galled her into deeper recriminations. Only the boy showed no reproach for her folly. Ayaki was past feeling, beyond reach of sorrow or joy. Mara choked back a spasm of grief. How she wished the dart had taken her, that the darkness which ended all striving could be hers, instead of her son’s. That she had another surviving child did not lessen her despair. Of the two, Ayaki had known the least of life’s fullness, despite his being the elder. Fathered by Buntokapi of the Anasati, whose family had been an Acoma enemy, in a union from which Mara had derived much pain and no happiness. Political expediency had led her to deeds of deceit and entrapment that to her maturer view seemed no less than murder. Ayaki had been her atonement for his father’s wasteful suicide, brought about by Mara’s own machinations. Although by the tenets of the Game of the Council she had won a telling victory, privately she considered Buntokapi’s death a defeat. That his family’s neglect had made of him a tool open for her to exploit made no difference. Ayaki had offered her a chance to give her first husband’s shade lasting honor. She had been determined that his son would rise to the greatness that Buntokapi had been denied. But the hope was ended now. Lord Jiro of the Anasati had been Buntokapi’s brother, and the fact that his plot against her had misfired and resulted in a nephew’s death had shifted the balance of politics yet again. For, without Ayaki, the Anasati were free to resume the enmity quiescent since her father’s time. Ayaki had grown up with the best teachers, and all of her soldiers’ vigilance to protect him; but he had paid for the privileges of his rank. At nine he had nearly lost his life to an assassin’s knife. Two nurses and a beloved old household servant had been murdered before his eyes, and the experience had left him with nightmares. Mara resisted an urge to rub his hand in comfort. The flesh was cold, and his eyes would never open in joy and trust. Mara did not have to fight down tears; rage at injustice choked her sorrow for her. The personal demons that had twisted his father’s nature toward cruelty had inspired melancholy and brooding in Ayaki. Only in the past three years, since Mara’s marriage to Hokanu, had the sunnier side of the boy’s nature gained ascendancy. The fortress of the Minwanabi, Ayaki had been fond of pointing out, had never been so much as besieged. The defenses here were impregnable to an enemy. Moreover, Mara was a Servant of the Empire. The title carried favor with the gods, and luck enough to ward away misfortune. Now, Mara berated herself for allowing his childish, blind faith to influence her. She had used traditions and superstitions to her advantage often enough in the past. She had been a vain fool not to see that the same things could be exploited against her. It seemed an injustice that the child should have paid, and not her. His small half-brother, Justin, had helped lighten Ayaki’s bleak spells. Her second son was the child of the barbarian slave she still loved. She had only to close her eyes for an instant and Kevin’s face came to mind, nearly always smiling over some ridiculous joke, his red hair and beard shining copper under Kelewan’s sun. With him she had shared none of the harmonious rapport she now enjoyed with Hokanu. No, Kevin had been tempestuous, impulsive, at times passionately illogical. He would not have hidden his grief from her, but would have freed his feelings in an explosive storm; in his intense expression of life she might have found the courage to face this outrage. Young Justin had inherited his father’s carefree nature. He laughed easily, was quick to get into mischief, and already evidenced a fast tongue. Like his father before him, Justin had a knack for snapping Ayaki out of his brooding. He would run on fat legs, trip, and tumble over laughing, or he would make ridiculous faces until it was impossible to be near him and stay withdrawn. But there would be no more shared laughter for Ayaki now. Mara shivered, only that moment conscious of the presence of someone at her side. Hokanu had entered the chamber in the uncannily silent manner he had learned from the foresters on the barbarian world. Aware that she had noticed him, he took her cold hand into his warm one. ‘My Lady, it is past midnight. You would do well to take some rest.’ Mara half turned from the bier. Her dark eyes fastened on Hokanu’s, and the compassion in his gaze caused her to dissolve into tears. His handsome features blurred, and his grip shifted, supporting her body against his shoulder. He was strong in the same sparely muscled way of his father. And if he did not kindle the wild passion that Kevin had, with him, Mara shared an effortless understanding. He was husband to her as Ayaki’s father had never been, and his presence now as grief crumbled her poise was all that kept her from insanity. The touch that sought to soothe her sorrow was that of a man well capable of command on the field of war. He preferred peace, as she did, but when the ways of the sword became necessary, he had the courage of the tigers that inhabited the world beyond the rift. Now, belatedly, the Acoma would need those skills in battle. As tears rinsed Mara’s cheeks, she tasted bitterness that knew no limit. The guilt inside her had a name she could use as a scapegoat. Jiro of the Anasati had murdered her son; for that, she would destroy his house beyond the memory of the living. As though he sensed the ugly turn of her thoughts, Hokanu shook her gently. ‘My Lady, you are needed. Justin cried all through his supper, asking what had happened to his mama. Keyoke called each hour for instructions, and Force Commander Lujan needs to know how many companies should be recalled from garrison duty at your estates near Sulan-Qu.’ In his inimitably subtle way, Hokanu did not argue the necessity for war. That brought relief. Had he offered questions, had he sought to dissuade her from vengeance against Jiro upon grounds that a single shell token offered too scanty evidence, she would have turned on him in a fury. Who was not with her at this moment was against her. A blow had been struck against the Acoma, and honor demanded action. But the form of her murdered son sapped her will; life in any form seemed sucked dry, devoid of interest. ‘Lady?’ prompted Hokanu. ‘Your decisions are necessary for the continuance of your house. For now you are the Acoma.’ A frown gathered Mara’s eyebrows. Her husband’s words were truth. Upon their marriage, they had agreed that young Justin would become the Shinzawai heir after Hokanu. Fiercely, suddenly, Mara wished that promise unspoken. Never would she have agreed to such a thing had she realised Ayaki’s mortality. The circle closed, again. She had been negligent. Had she not grown dangerously complacent, her black haired son would not lie in state inside a circle of death lamps. He would be running, as a boy should, or practicing the skills of a warrior, or riding his great black gelding faster than the wind over the hills. Again Mara saw in her mind’s eye the arc of the brute’s rearing form, and the terrible, thrashing of hooves as it toppled … ‘Lady,’ chided Hokanu. Tenderly he pried her fingers open, and endeavored to stroke away her tension. ‘It is over. We must continue to strive for the living.’ His hands brushed away her tears. More spilled between her eyelids to replace them. ‘Mara, the gods have not been kind. But my love for you goes on, and the faith of your household in your spirit shines like a lamp in the darkness. Ayaki did not live for nothing. He was brave, and strong, and he did not shy from his responsibilities, even at the moment of his death. As he did, so must we or the dart that felled the horse will deal more than one mortal blow.’ Mara closed her eyes, and tried to deny the oil-scented smoke of the death lamps. She did not need reminding that thousands of lives depended upon her, as Ruling Lady of the Acoma; today she had paid for the proof that she did not deserve their trust. She was regent for a growing son no longer. There seemed no heart left in her, and yet she must prepare for a great war, and achieve vengeance to keep family honor, and then, she must produce another heir. Yet the hope, the future, the enthusiasms, and the dreams she had sacrificed so much for had all gone to dust. She felt numbed, punished beyond caring. ‘My Lord and husband,’ she said hoarsely ‘attend to my advisers, and have them do as you suggest. I have not the heart to make decisions, and the Acoma must make ready for battle.’ Hokanu looked at her with wounded eyes. He had long admired her spirit, and to see her beautiful boldness overcome by grief made his heart ache. He held her close, knowing the depth of her pain. ‘Lady,’ he whispered softly. ‘I will spare you all I can. If you would march upon Jiro of the Anasati, I will stand at the right hand of your Force Commander. But sooner or later, you must put on the mantle of your house. The Acoma name is your charge. Ayaki’s loss must not signify an ending but create a renewal of your line.’ Past speech, beyond rational thought, Mara turned her face into her husband’s shoulder, and for a very long time her tears soaked soundlessly into the rich blue silk of his robe. • Chapter Two • Confrontation (#ulink_6be64809-8f2d-5835-8407-940dfd1fb0f6) Jiro frowned. Though the unadorned robe he wore was light and the portico around the courtyard adjacent to his library was still cool at this early hour, fine sweat beaded his brow. A tray of half-eaten breakfast lay abandoned at his elbow, while he tapped tense fingers on the embroidered cushion he sat on; his eyes unwaveringly studied the game board spread at his knees. He considered the position of each piece singly, and sought to assess the probable outcome of each move. A wrong choice might not seem immediately obvious, but against today’s opponent, the consequences were apt to prove ruinous several moves later. Scholars claimed the game of shah sharpened a man’s instinct for battle and politics, but Jiro, Lord of the Anasati, enjoyed puzzles of the mind over physical contests. He found its intricacies hypnotic for their own sake. His skills had surpassed those of his father and other teachers at a precociously early age. When he was a boy, his older brother, Halesko, and younger brother, Buntokapi, had often as not pummeled him for the contemptuous ease he displayed in defeating them. Jiro had sought older opponents, and had even contended against the Midkemian traders who visited the Empire more and more often, seeking markets for their otherworld goods. They called the game chess, but the rules were the same. Jiro found few in their ranks to challenge him. The one man he had never defeated sat opposite him, absently scanning through an array of documents piled meticulously around his knees. Chumaka, First Adviser to the Anasati since Jiro’s father’s time, was a whip-thin, narrow-faced man with a pointed chin and black, impenetrable eyes. He checked the game board in passing, now and again pausing to answer his master’s moves. Rather than being irritated by the absent-minded fashion in which his First Adviser routinely defeated him, Jiro felt pride that such a facile mind served the Anasati. Chumaka’s gift for anticipating complex politics at times seemed to border on the uncanny. Most of Jiro’s father’s ascendancy in the Game of the Council could be credited to this adviser’s shrewd advice. While Mara of the Acoma had humiliated the Anasati early in her rise to greatness, Chumaka had offered sage counsel that had sheltered family interests from setbacks in the conflict that had followed between the Acoma and the Minwanabi. Jiro chewed his lip, torn between two moves that offered small gains and another that held promise of long-term strategy. As he debated, his thoughts circled back to the Great Game: the obliteration of House Minwanabi might have proven a cause for celebration, since they had been rivals of the Anasati – save that the victory had been won by the woman Jiro hated foremost among the living. His hostility remained from the moment Lady Mara named her choice of husband, and picked his younger brother, Buntokapi, as her consort over Jiro. It did not matter that, had his ego not suffered a bruising, Jiro would have been the one to die of the Lady’s machinations, instead of Bunto. Enamored though he was of scholarly thought, the last surviving son of the Anasati line stayed blind to logic on this point. He fed his spite by brooding. That the bitch had cold-heartedly plotted the death of his brother was cause for blood vengeance; never mind that Bunto had been despised by his family, and that he had renounced all ties to Anasati to accept the Lordship of the Acoma. So deep, so icy was Jiro’s hatred that he preferred obstinate blindness to recognition that he had inherited his own Ruling Lordship precisely because Mara had spurned him. Over the years his youthful thirst for retribution had darkened into the abiding obsession of a dangerous, cunning rival. Jiro glared at the shah board but raised no hand to advance a player. Chumaka noticed this as he riffled through his correspondence. His high brows arched upward. ‘You’re thinking of Mara again.’ Jiro looked nettled. ‘I have warned you,’ Chumaka resumed in his grainy, emotionless voice. ‘Dwelling on your enmity will upset your inner balance and ultimately cost you the game.’ The Lord of the Anasati indicated his contempt by selecting the bolder of the two short-range moves. ‘Ah.’ Chumaka had the ill grace to look delighted as he removed his captured minor player. With his left hand still occupied with papers, he immediately advanced his priest. The Anasati Lord chewed his lip, vexed; why had his First Adviser done that? Enmeshed in an attempt to fathom the logic behind the move, Jiro barely noticed the messenger who hurried into the chamber. The arrival bowed to his master. Immediately upon receiving the languid wave that allowed him leave to rise, he passed the sealed packet he carried to Chumaka. ‘Your permission, master?’ Chumaka murmured. ‘The correspondence is coded, is it not?’ Jiro said, not wanting the interruption as he pondered his next move. His hand lingered between pieces, while Chumaka cleared his throat. Jiro took this for affirmation. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Open your dispatches, then. And may the news in them for once dull your concentration for the game.’ Chumaka gave a short bark of laughter. ‘The more scurrilous the gossip, the keener I will play.’ He followed Jiro’s indecision with an amusement that almost, but not quite, approached contempt. Then he flipped over the pouch and used the one thumbnail he left unbitten for the purpose to slit the tie. As he thumbed through the papers inside, his brows arched. ‘This is most unexpected.’ The Lord of the Anasati’s hand hung in space. He looked up, intrigued by the novelty of his First Adviser’s surprise. ‘What?’ Servant to two generations of Ruling Lords, Chumaka was rarely caught out. He regarded his master, speculation in the depths of his eyes. ‘Pardon, my Lord. I was speaking of this.’ He drew a paper from the pouch. Then, as his peripheral sight took in the piece under Jiro’s poised hand, he added, ‘Your move is anticipated, master.’ Jiro withdrew his hand, caught between irritation and amusement. ‘Anticipated,’ he muttered. He lounged back on his cushions to settle his mind. From this changed vantage, the game board showed a different perspective; a trick picked up from his father at an early age. Chumaka tapped a leathery cheek with the document that had caused the interruption and smiled in his enigmatic way. Typically he would point out a mistake; but in shah he would not advise. He would wait for Jiro to pay for the consequence of his moves. ‘This one,’ he muttered, making a mark upon the parchment with a small quill. Jiro furiously reviewed strategy. Try as he might, he found no threat. ‘You’re bluffing me.’ He went on to move the piece in dispute. Chumaka looked faintly disgusted. ‘I don’t need to bluff.’ He advanced another piece and said, ‘Your Warlord is now guarded.’ Jiro saw the trap his First Adviser had set: its subtlety infuriated. Either the master would surrender the center of the board and be forced to play a defensive game, or he would lose his Warlord, the most powerful piece, and exchange position for a weakened offensive capacity. Jiro’s forehead creased as he considered several positions ahead. No matter how many combinations he imagined, he discovered no way to win. His only hope was to try for a stalemate. He moved his remaining priest. Chumaka by now was engrossed in reading. Still, at his Lord’s reply, he glanced down, captured the priest with a soldier, and paradoxically allowed his master to free his Warlord. Warned to caution by the reprieve, Jiro sought to extrapolate as far ahead as possible. Too late, his mind gave him insight: he saw with disappointment that he had been manipulated to the very move his First Adviser had desired. The hoped-for stalemate was now forfeit, with defeat simply a matter of time. Prolonging the match never helped; Chumaka seemed at times to be impervious to human mistakes. Sighing in frustration, the Lord of the Anasati resigned by turning his Emperor over on its side. ‘Your game, Chumaka.’ He rubbed his eyes, his head aching from the aftermath of tension. Chumaka gave him a piercing glance over his letter. ‘Your play is steadily improving, Lord Jiro.’ Jiro let the compliments soothe the sting of yet another defeat. ‘I often wonder how you can play so brilliantly with your mind on other matters, Chumaka.’ The First Adviser snapped the document into folds. ‘Shah is but one aspect of the prepared mind, my Lord.’ Holding his master’s attention with heavy-lidded eyes, he added, ‘I hold no trick of strategy, but of knowing my opponent. I have observed you all your life, master. From your third move, I could sense where you were probing. By your sixth move, I had eliminated more than four fifths of the total possibilities in the game.’ Jiro let his hands fall limp to his lap. ‘How?’ ‘Because you are like most men in the gods’ creation, my Lord. You can be depended upon to act within a pattern determined by your individual character.’ Chumaka tucked the parchment in a capacious pocket of his robe. ‘You spent a peaceful night. You ate well. You were relaxed. While you were focused, you were not … hungry. By the third move, I extrapolated that your game would reflect directness, and … not boldness and risk.’ Paying Jiro his undivided attention, he summed up, ‘The secret is to ferret out the clues that will reveal the thoughts of one’s opponent. Learn his motives, know his passions, and you need not wait to see what he does: you can anticipate his next move.’ Jiro gave back a humorless smile. ‘I hope that one day a shah master may visit who could humble you, Chumaka.’ The First Adviser chuckled. ‘I have been humbled many times, my Lord. Many times. But you have never seen it.’ His gaze flicked over the disarranged players, in satisfied reminiscence. ‘Play with those who do not know you as I do, and you will emerge victorious. In truth, you have an enviable gift for strategy. I am not a better shah player, master.’ The First Adviser selected another paper from his pouch as he finished his rumination. ‘But I am a far better student of you than you have ever been of me.’ Jiro felt discomforted that anyone, even a servant as loyal as Chumaka, would have subjected him to so detailed a scrutiny. Then he caught himself short: he was fortunate to have the man as a high officer. Chumaka’s job was to act as adviser, confidant, and diplomat. The better he knew his master, the better he would serve the Anasati. To hate him for his supreme skill was a fool’s measure, the mistake of a master too vain to admit shortcoming. Jiro chastised himself for selfish, unworthy suspicions and said, ‘What has you so engrossed this morning?’ Chumaka shuffled through the pouch, selected several more missives, and pushed the shah board aside to make space to array the papers around his knees. ‘I have been pursuing that lead we had into the Acoma spy network, and keeping watch upon the contacts as you requested. News has just arrived that I’m attempting to fit in.’ His voice fell to a mutter intelligible only to him as he reshuffled his piles, then resolved to thinking aloud: ‘I’m not quite yet sure –’ He twitched another paper from one pile to the next. ‘Forgive the disarray, master, but such visualizations help me keep track of relationships. Too often one is tempted to consider events in a straight line, in a particular order, when actually life is rather … chaotic.’ He stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger. ‘I have often thought of having a table constructed of sticks, so I might place notes at different heights, to further dramatise interconnections …’ Experience had taught Jiro not to be nettled by his First Adviser’s idiosyncrasies. He might grumble over his work, but he seemed to produce the most valuable results at such times. The Anasati spy network that Jiro had spent all the wealth he could spare to expand was providing more useful information each year. Other great houses might employ a spy master to manage such an operation in his own right; yet Chumaka had urged against allowing another to oversee his works. He insisted on first-hand control of those agents he had placed in other houses, guild halls, and trading centers. Even when Tecuma, Jiro’s father, had ruled House Anasati, Chumaka had occasionally left the estate to oversee some matter or another in person. While Jiro showed a young man’s impatience at his First Adviser’s foibles, he knew when not to interfere. Now, while Chumaka pored over the gleanings of his agents, the Lord of the Anasati noticed that some of the reports on the stacks dated back as much as two years. A few seemed nothing more than the jottings of a grain factor’s secretary who used the margins to figure his accounts. ‘What is this new information?’ Chumaka did not glance up. ‘Someone’s tried to kill Mara.’ This was momentous news! Jiro sat up straight, irked that he had not been told at once, and maddened that some other faction, rather than the Anasati, had discommoded the Lady. ‘How do you know this?’ The wily Chumaka hooked the folded paper out of his robe and extended it toward his master. Jiro snatched the message and read the opening lines. ‘My nephew Ayaki’s dead!’ he exclaimed. The Anasati First Adviser interrupted before his master could launch into a tirade. ‘Official word will not reach us until tomorrow, my Lord. That gives us today and tonight to weigh the manner in which we shall respond.’ Distracted from chastising his officer for withholding information unnecessarily, Jiro diverted to consider the course of thought Chumaka desired: for politically, the Anasati and the Acoma had been bitterest enemies until Mara’s marriage to Buntokapi; since Bunto’s ritual suicide, her heir Ayaki represented a blood tie between the two houses. Family duty had provided the only reason for suspension of hostilities. Now the boy was in Turakamu’s halls. Jiro felt no personal regret at the news of his nephew’s death. He knew anger, that his closest male kin should have been born to the Acoma name; he had long chafed under the treaty that compelled him as Anasati to provide the Acoma with an alliance in the cause of that same child’s protection. That constraint was ended at long last. Mara had signally failed in her duty as guardian. She had gotten the boy killed. The Anasati had the public excuse, no, the honorable duty, of exacting reprisal for the boy’s untimely end. Jiro could barely keep from reveling in the knowledge that he could at last begin to avenge himself on Mara. He asked, ‘How did the boy die?’ Chumaka shot his master a look of unveiled rebuke. ‘Had you read to the end of what you hold, you would know.’ Lord Jiro felt moved to assert himself as Ruling Lord. ‘Why not tell me? Your post is to advise.’ The hot black eyes of the First Adviser dropped back to his papers. He did not show any overt irritation over Jiro’s correction. If anything, he replied with unctuous complacence. ‘Ayaki died of a fall from a horse. That’s made public. What is not widely known, what has been garnered by our agent near her estates, is that the horse died as well. It fell and crushed the child after being struck by a poisoned dart.’ Jiro’s mind pounced on pertinent bits of earlier conversation. ‘A tong assassin,’ he surmised, ‘whose intended target was Lady Mara.’ Chumaka’s expression remained ferociously bland. ‘So the paper in your hand spells out clearly.’ Now Lord Jiro inclined his head, half laughing in magnanimous spirits. ‘I accept the lesson, First Adviser. Now, rather than your using this news as a whip to instruct me, I would hear what conclusions you have drawn. The son of my enemy was, nevertheless my blood kin. This news makes me angry.’ Chumaka gnawed on the thumbnail he did not keep sharpened, to break the seals off his correspondence. His eyes stopped tracking the cipher on the page in his hand as he analysed his master’s statement. Jiro showed no outward emotion, in traditional Tsurani fashion; if he said he was angry, he was to be taken at his word. Honor demanded the servant believe the master. But Jiro was less enraged than excited, Chumaka determined, which did not bode well for Mara. Young yet at ruling, Jiro failed to grasp the longer-range benefits of allowing the alliance between Anasati and Acoma to dissolve into a state of laissez-faire. The silence as his adviser pondered rasped at Jiro’s nerves. ‘Who?’ he demanded peevishly. ‘Which of Mara’s enemies desires her death? We could make ourselves an ally out of this, if we are bold.’ Chumaka sat back and indulged in a deep sigh. Behind his pose of long-suffering patience, he was intrigued by the unexpected turn events had taken, Jiro saw. The Anasati First Adviser was as enamored of Tsurani politics as a child craving sweets. ‘I can conceive of several possibilities,’ Chumaka allowed. ‘Yet those houses with the courage to act lack the means, and those with the means lack courage. To seek the death of a Servant of the Empire is … unprecedented.’ He chewed his thin lower lip, then waved one of the servants over to stack the documents into piles to be gathered up and conveyed to his private quarters. To Jiro’s impatience, he said at last, ‘I should venture a guess that Mara was attacked by the Hamoi Tong.’ Jiro relinquished the note to the servant with a sneer. ‘Of course the tong. But who paid the death price?’ Chumaka arose. ‘No one. That’s what makes this so elegant. I think the tong acts for their own reasons.’ Jiro’s brows rose in surprise. ‘But why? What has the tong to gain by killing Mara?’ A runner servant appeared at the screen that led into the main estate house. He bowed, but before he could speak, Chumaka second-guessed the reason behind his errand. ‘Master, the court is assembled,’ he said directly to his Lord; Jiro waved the servant off as he rose from his cushions. As master and First Adviser fell into step toward the long hall in which the Lord of the Anasati conducted business, Jiro surmised aloud, ‘We know that Tasaio of the Minwanabi paid the Hamoi Tong to kill Mara. Do you think he also paid them to attempt vengeance upon her should he fall?’ ‘Possibly.’ Chumaka counted points on his fingers, a habit he had when ordering his thoughts. ‘Minwanabi revenge might explain why, seemingly from nowhere, the tong chose to act after months of quiet.’ Pausing in the shadow of the corridor that accessed the double doors of the great hall, Jiro said, ‘If the tong acts on behalf of some pledge made to Tasaio before his death, will it try again?’ Chumaka shrugged, his stooped shoulders rising like tent poles under his turquoise silk robe. ‘Who can say? Only the Obajan of the Hamoi would know; he alone has access to the records that name those deaths bought and paid for. If the tong has vowed Mara’s death … it will persevere. If it merely agreed to make an attempt on her life, it has fulfilled its obligation.’ He gestured in rueful admiration. ‘The Good Servant has her luck from the gods, some might argue. For anyone else, an agreement to send an assassin is a virtual guarantee of success. Others have avoided the tong, once, even twice before; but the Lady Mara has survived five assassins that I know of. Her son was not so lucky.’ Jiro moved on with a step that snapped on the tiles. His nostrils flared, and he barely saw the two servants who sprang from their posts to open the audience hall doors for him. Striding past their abject bows, Jiro sniffed. Since getting his First Adviser to act with proper subservience was a waste of time, Jiro sniffed again. ‘Well, it’s a pity the assassin missed her. Still, we can seize advantage: the death of her son will cause much confusion in her household.’ Delicately, Chumaka cleared his throat. ‘Trouble will transfer to us, master.’ Jiro stopped in his tracks. His sandals squeaked as he pivoted to face his First Adviser. ‘Don’t you mean trouble for the Acoma? They have lost our alliance. No, they have spit on it by allowing Ayaki to come to harm.’ Chumaka stepped closer to his Lord, so the cluster of factors who awaited Jiro’s audience at the far end of the hall might not overhear. ‘Speak gently,’ he admonished. ‘Unless Mara finds convincing proof that it is Tasaio of the Minwanabi’s hand reaching from the halls of the Dead in this matter, it is logical for her to place blame upon us.’ Acerbically, he added, ‘You took pains when Lord Tecuma, your father, died to make your hostilities toward her house plain.’ Jiro jerked up his chin. ‘Perhaps.’ Chumaka did not press chastisement. Caught again into his innate fascination for the Game, he said, ‘Her network is the best I’ve seen. I have a theory: given her adoption of the entire Minwanabi household –’ Jiro’s cheeks flushed, ‘Another example of her blasphemous behavior and contempt for tradition!’ Chumaka held up a placating hand. There were times when Jiro’s thinking became clouded; having lost his mother to a fever at the tender age of five, as a boy he had clung irrationally to routine, to tradition, as if adherence to order could ward off the inconsistencies of life. Always he had tended to wall off his grief behind logic, or unswerving devotion to the dutiful ideal of the Tsurani noble. Chumaka did not like to encourage what he considered a weakening flaw in his Lord. The ramifications of allowing such traits to become policy were too confining for his liking. The perils, in fact, were paramount; in a bold move of his own, Chumaka had seized the initiative to take in more than two hundred soldiers formerly sworn to Minwanabi service. These were disaffected men whose hatred of Mara would last to their dying breath. Chumaka had not housed such for his own entertainment; he was not a disloyal man. He had secretly accommodated the warriors in a distant, secret barracks. Tactful inquiry had shown Jiro to be adamant in his refusal to consider swearing them to Anasati service; ancient custom held that such men were anathema, without honor and to be shunned lest the displeasure of the gods that had seen the unfortunate house fall be visited upon their benefactor. Yet Chumaka had refrained from sending these men away. He had no hope of a change in attitude from his master; but a tool was a tool, and these former Minwanabi might someday be useful, if the Ruling Lord of the Anasati could not be weaned from his puerile hatred of Mara. If the two Houses were going to be enemies, Chumaka saw such warriors as an advantage to be held in trust for the day their service might be needed. Mara had proven herself to be clever. She had ruined one house far larger than her own. Guile would be needed to match guile, and Chumaka was never a man to waste an opportunity. Indeed, he saw his secret as a loyal act, and what Jiro did not know, could not be forbidden. The warriors were not all. Chumaka had to restrain himself from the desire to rub his thin hands together in anticipation. He had spies as well. Already a few factors formerly in the Minwanabi employ were now working on behalf of the Anasati and not the Acoma. Chumaka gained the same pleasure in co-opting these people to his master’s service that he might in isolating an opponent’s fortress or priest upon the shah board. He knew eventually the Anasati would benefit. Then his master must see the wisdom of some of Mara’s choices. And so the Anasati First Adviser smiled, and said nothing; to a fine point, he knew just how far he could go in contradicting Jiro. Pressing his Lord toward his meeting with the factors, he said quietly, ‘Master, Mara may have flouted tradition by taking on responsibility for her vanquished enemy’s servants, but rather than merely removing her greatest enemy, she has gained immeasurable resources. Her strength has grown. From being a dangerous, dominant player in the Game of the Council, at one stroke Mara has become the single most powerful Ruling Lord or Lady in the history of the Empire. The Acoma forces, alone, now number more than ten thousand swords; they surpass several smaller clans. And Clan Hadama and its allies together rival the Emperor’s Imperial Whites!’ Chumaka turned reflective as he added, ‘She could rule by fiat, I think, if she had the ambition. The Light of Heaven is certainly not of a mind to oppose her wishes.’ Disliking to be reminded of the Lady’s swift ascendance, Jiro became the more nettled. ‘Never mind. What is this theory?’ Chumuka raised up one finger. ‘We know Tasaio of the Minwanabi employed the Hamoi Tong. The tong continues to pursue Mara’s death.’ Counting on a second finger, he listed, ‘These facts may or may not be related. Incomo, Tasaio’s former First Adviser, was effective in discovering some or all of the Acoma agents who had infiltrated the Minwanabi household. There was a disruption after that, and a mystery remains: our own network reported that someone killed every Acoma agent between the Minwanabi Great House and the City of Sulan-Qu.’ Jiro gave an offhand wave. ‘So Tasaio had all her agents killed as far back as he could trace her network.’ Chumaka’s smile became predatory. ‘What if he didn’t?’ He flicked up a third finger. ‘Here is another fact: the Hamoi Tong killed those servants inside the Minwanabi household who were Acoma agents.’ The Lord’s boredom intensified. ‘Tasaio ordered the tong –’ ‘No!’ Chumaka interrupted, verging on disrespect. Swiftly he amended his manners by turning his outburst into prelude for instruction. ‘Why should Tasaio hire tong to kill his own staff? Why pay death price for lives that could be taken by an order to the Minwanabi guards?’ Jiro looked rueful. ‘I was thinking carelessly.’ His eyes shifted forward to where the factors were fidgeting at the delay, as Lord and adviser continued to equivocate just inside the doorway. Chumaka ignored their discomfort. They were underlings, after all, and it was their place to wait upon their Lord. ‘Because there is no logical reason, my master. However, we can make a surmise: if I were the Lady, and I wished to insult both the tong and Tasaio, what better way than to order the tong, under false colors, to kill her spies?’ Jiro’s expression quickened. He could follow Chumaka’s reasoning on his own, now he had been clued in to the first step. ‘You think the Hamoi Tong may have cause to declare a blood debt toward Mara?’ Chumaka’s answer was a toothy smile. Jiro resumed walking. His steps echoed across the vast hall, with its paper screens drawn closed on both sides, and its roof beams hung with dusty war relics and a venerable collection of captured enemy banners. These artifacts reminded of a time when the Anasati were at the forefront of historical battles. Theirs was an ancient tradition of honor. They would rise as high again, Jiro vowed; no, higher yet. For Mara’s defeat would be his to arrange, a victory that would resound throughout the Empire. He alone would prove that Mara had incurred the gods’ displeasure in granting reprieve to conquered enemy servants. Single-handedly, he would exact vengeance for her flouting of the old ways. She would look into his eyes as she died, and know: she had made her worst mistake on the day she had chosen Buntokapi for her husband. Unlike the grandeur of the Minwanabi great hall that Mara had inherited, the Anasati great hall was as reassuring in its traditional design as the most time-honored ritual in the temple. Jiro luxuriated in this; no different from the halls of a hundred other Ruling Lords, this chamber was nevertheless unique; it was Anasati. Along both sides of the center aisle knelt petitioners and Anasati retainers. Omelo, his Force Commander, stood at attention to one side of the dais upon which Jiro conducted the business of his court. Arrayed behind him were the other officers and advisers of the household. Jiro mounted his dais, knelt on the Lord’s cushions, then settled back on his heels as he adjusted his formal robe. Before he signaled his hadonra to begin the day’s council, he said to his First Adviser, ‘Find out for certain if the tong pursues Mara on its own. I would know, so we can make better plans when this news of Ayaki’s death becomes official.’ Chumaka clapped his hands and a servant came to his shoulder. ‘Have two runners in my quarters by the time I reach them.’ While the servant bowed and hastened away, he made his own obeisance to the master. ‘Lord, I shall begin at once. I have some new sources that may provide us with better information.’ Then, seeing the hardened glint in Lord Jiro’s eyes, Chumaka touched his master’s sleeve. ‘We must show restraint until Mara’s messenger reaches us with formal announcement of Ayaki’s death. Speak now, and your staff will gossip. We would ill be served by giving our enemy proof, that we have spies in sensitive places.’ Jiro snapped away from Chumaka’s touch. ‘I understand, but do not ask me to be complacent! All in Anasati service will mourn. Ayaki of the Acoma, my nephew, has been slain, and every man of ours who is not a slave will wear a red band upon his arm in token of our loss. When this day’s business is finished, you will ready an honor guard for travel to Sulan-Qu.’ Chumaka bit back annoyance. ‘We attend the boy’s funeral?’ Jiro bared his teeth. ‘He was my nephew. To stay home when his ashes are honored would be to admit responsibility or cowardice, and we are guilty of neither. He may have been the son of my enemy, and I may now destroy his mother without constraint, but he shares Anasati blood! He deserves the respect any grandson of Tecuma of the Anasati is entitled. We shall carry a family relic to be burned with him.’ Jiro’s eyes flashed as he finished, ‘Tradition demands our presence!’ Chumaka kept his reservations about this decision as he bowed in acknowledgment of his master’s wishes. While it was a First Adviser’s place to shepherd his Lord through decisions that affected house policy, Chumaka was wont to chafe at the more mundane responsibilities of his office. The Game of the Council had changed dramatically since Mara of the Acoma first entered the arena; yet it was still the game, and nothing in life captured the adviser’s fascination like the puzzle of Tsurani politics. Taut as a coursing hound, he rose up in excitement for the chase. Almost happy despite the prospect of unfortunate developments on the horizon, the First Adviser left the great hall, muttering over the lists of instructions he would need to dispatch with his runners. Substantial bribes would be necessary to pry loose the information he desired, but if the gathered bits of intelligence could prove his morning’s theory, the gains would outweigh the cost. As Chumaka paused for the servants to open the door to let him out, his lips reflected an unholy smile. Years had passed since he had tested his wits against a worthy opponent! Lady Mara was going to afford him much amusement if Lord Jiro’s obsession could not be cooled, and the Anasati marked her house for ruin. Mara tossed fitfully in sleep. Her sounds of distress tore at Hokanu’s heart, and he wished to do something, to touch her, to speak soft words, to ease her agony. But she had slept very little since Ayaki’s death. Even the restlessness of nightmares offered some release. To waken her was to force her to awareness of her loss, and to the crushing necessity of bearing up under the strain. Hokanu sighed and regarded the patterns that moonlight cast through the screens. The shadows in the corners seemed to loom darker than ever before; not even the presence of doubled sentries at each door and window could recover the lost sense of peace. The heir to the Shinzawai and husband to the Servant of the Empire now found himself a man alone, with nothing but his wits and his love for a troubled woman. The predawn air was cool, unusual for lands in Szetac Province, perhaps owing to the proximity of the house to the lake. Hokanu arose and slipped on the light robe he had cast off the night before. He tied the sash, then took a stance overlooking the sleeping mat with his arms crossed tightly against his chest. He kept vigil while Mara tossed in the bedclothes, her hair like a patch of lingering night in the slowly brightening air. The coppery moonlight faded, washed out by early gray. The screen that opened upon the private terrace had turned slowly from black to pearl. Hokanu restrained an urge to pace. Mara had woken during the night, sobbing in his arms and crying Ayaki’s name. He had held her close, but his warmth would bring her no comfort. Hokanu’s jaw tightened at the memory. A foe he would willingly face in battle, but this sorrow … a child dead as his potential had barely begun to unfold … There was no remedy under sky that a husband could offer. Only time would dull the ache. Hokanu was not a man who cursed. Controlled and taut as the pitched treble string of a harplike tiral he allowed himself no indulgence that might in any way disturb his wife. Silently, dangerously graceful, he slid aside the door just enough to pass through. The day was too fair, he thought as he regarded the pale green sky. There should have been storms, strong winds, even lightning and rain; nature herself should rail at the earth on the day of Ayaki’s funeral. Across the hill, in the hollow before the lakeshore, the final preparations were being carried out. The stacked wood of the pyre arose in a ziggurat. Jican had made free with Acoma wealth, on Hokanu’s order, and made sure that only aromatic woods were purchased. The stink of singed flesh and hair would not offend the mourners or the boy’s mother. Hokanu’s mouth thinned. There would be no privacy for Mara on this most sad occasion. She had risen too high, and her son’s funeral would be a state rite. Ruling Lords would converge from all parts of the Empire to pay their respects – or to further their plot’s intrigues. The Game of the Council did not pause for grief, or joy, or any calamity of nature. Like rot unseen under painted wood, the circumstances that had created Ayaki’s death would repeat themselves again and again. A dust cloud arose on the northern skyline; guests already arriving, Hokanu surmised. He glanced again at his wife, reassured that her dreams had quieted. He stepped quietly to the door, spoke to the boy runner, and arranged for the Lady’s maids to be with her when she wakened. Then he gave in to his restlessness and strode out onto the terrace. The estate was beginning to stir. Jican could be seen crossing at a half run between the kitchen wing and the servants’ quarters, where laundry girls already hurried between guest chambers with baskets of fresh linens balanced on their heads. Prepared for state visitors, warriors in dress armor marched to relieve the night watch. Yet, amid the general air of purpose, two figures walked by the lake, keeping pace with each other, but apparently on no logical errand beyond a morning stroll. Suspicion gave Hokanu pause, until he looked closer and identified the pair. Then curiosity drew him across the terrace and he descended the stairs that gave access to the grounds below. Following quietly between the rows of akasi flowers, Hokanu confirmed his first impression: Incomo and Irrilandi moved ahead of him at their unhurried pace, seemingly lost in thought. The former First Adviser and the former Force Commander to Tasaio of the Minwanabi did not wander aimlessly. Intrigued by what these two previous enemies turned loyal servants might be doing out so early on this sad day, Hokanu slipped silently after. The pair reached the edge of the lake, and the reed-frail adviser and leathery, battle-muscled warrior both knelt upon a little rise. Past a notch between the scrolled eaves of the great house and the hill it fronted, the first pink clouds drifted in the sky, their undersides heating to orange as the rays of a sun not yet visible gilded their edges. Both men sat as if praying. Hokanu noiselessly drew nearer. For several minutes the Lord and the two servants abided in frozen tableau. Then daybreak pierced the gloom, and a sun beam fanned across the sky, catching in a crystalline formation at the peak of the rise. There came a flash that dazzled. Warmth and first light bathed the secluded quiet, and the dew sparkled, touched to gemlike brilliance. Then Irrilandi and Incomo bowed until their heads touched the earth, repeating faint words that Hokanu could not make out. For that brief instant, the son of the Shinzawai was nearly blinded by the unexpected flash; then it was gone as the angle of the rising sun changed. The two men completed their strange rite and stood. The war-wary eyes of Irrilandi were first to pick out a discrepancy in the quiet morning. He saw the Lord who waited nearby, and bowed. ‘Master Hokanu,’ he said. Caught short, Incomo repeated the gesture. Hokanu motioned both servants back toward the house. ‘I could not sleep,’ he said ruefully. ‘I observed you walking and came to see what brought you here.’ Irrilandi gave a Tsurani shrug. ‘Each day before sunrise we give thanks.’ Hokanu’s silence begged for a further explanation, though he did not look at either man but studied his bare feet as he stepped through dew-damp grass. Incomo cleared his throat in what might have been embarrassment. ‘We come here each day to witness the day’s beginning. And to give thanks, since the Good Servant came to us.’ He regarded the great house, with its high, peaked gables, stone pillars, and the screen lintels tied now with red bunting in respect for Turakamu, the Red God, who would welcome Ayaki’s spirit into his keeping during the day’s rites. Incomo elaborated for Hokanu’s benefit. ‘When our Lady brought about Tasaio’s ruin, we expected death or slavery. Instead we were given the gift of days: another chance to serve and gain honor. So each sunrise we offer a prayer of thanks for this reprieve, and for the Good Servant.’ Hokanu nodded, unsurprised by the devotion of these high officers. As Servant of the Empire, Mara was beloved by the masses. Her own staff served her with an affection that bordered upon awe. Indeed, she would need such support for her house to recover from this loss. A ruler disliked by his people might expect a blow of this magnitude to cause hesitation in his staff, as servants from the highest positions down to the meanest slave fretted over whether heaven had withdrawn the luck of the house. Even without divine disapproval, mortal enemies would seize upon opportunity and strike where the ranks were most confused. And so the superstition fed upon the results, since a house weakened would suffer setbacks, and so seem to be in the disfavor of the gods. Hokanu felt irritation. Too many events in this Empire twisted in upon themselves, until centuries of unbending customs led their society toward stagnation and entropy. This inbred cycle he and Mara and Ichindar, the Emperor of the Nations, had dedicated themselves to overturn. Ayaki’s untimely end was more than sorrow and grief; it could become a major setback and be turned into a rallying cry for all those Ruling Lords who were disgruntled by recent changes. If the Acoma showed any sign of irresolution, there would be strife; and at the heart of the faction that had begun to form in rigid adherence to old traditions, the Anasati voice would be loudest. The funeral guests would not be here to observe the ashes of the departed as they spiraled in their smoky ascent to heaven; no: they would be watching one another like starving dogs, and Lady Mara would be subjected to the most thorough scrutiny of all. Weighed down by dread, for he knew his Lady was too lost in her pain to handle peripheral matters, Hokanu pushed open the ornamental gate and started across the garden. He forgot the two men who walked with him until Incomo said, ‘First Adviser Saric has all in readiness, master. Entertainments have been arranged to divert the guests, and the honor guards of all but the greatest Ruling Lords will be quartered in the garrison across the lake. The pyre has been soaked in oils, and all has been done to keep the ceremony as brief as possible.’ Hokanu found no reassurance in Incomo’s words; that the adviser felt need to stress such points bespoke a sharing of concern. The game would go on, whether or not Lady Mara could rally and cope. ‘We shall not stint in our honors to the departed young master,’ added Irrilandi, ‘but it is my suggestion that you stay by your Lady’s side, and be prepared to interpret her instructions.’ Politely, tactfully, the high officers of House Acoma acknowledged that their mistress remained incapacitated. Hokanu felt a surge of gratitude to these men, who were quietly and staunchly prepared to try to cover for her lapse. He tried to reassure them that House Acoma would not flounder with the currents of misfortune like some rudderless ship. ‘I shall be with my Lady. She is touched by your devotion and would have me say that you should not hesitate to approach if you have any difficulties or concerns.’ A knowing glance passed between master and servants. Then Irrilandi bowed. ‘More than a thousand soldiers have made prayers to Turakamu to take them in the young master’s place.’ Hokanu nodded in respect. Those soldiers would wear arms throughout the funeral ceremony in token of their vow, a strong deterrent to any visiting Lord who might contemplate causing trouble, in breach of Acoma hospitality. The number was a great honor to Ayaki, the men’s dedication also demonstrated that barracks rumor recognised the political ramifications of what was far more than a personal tragedy. The Lords who came today would gather and circle like jaguna, the eaters of dead meat, to see what prizes could be snatched from the teeth of misfortune. Hokanu received the departing bows of the two officers, then looked over his shoulder at the lake, where barges were now heading rapidly toward the docks. Banners flew from their poles, and the chant of the oarsmen carried across the water. Very shortly now the quiet estate would become a political arena. Hokanu considered the great stone house that had been the hall of the Minwanabi for centuries. The place had been designed as a fortress, but today even enemies must be invited inside. The priest of Chochocan, the Good God, had blessed the estate, and Mara had seen the Minwanabi natami placed in a dedicated glade, so that a once great house should be remembered. Yet despite these measures and the assurances of the priests that the Good Servant’s acts had earned divine favor, Hokanu swallowed back a feeling of dread. The depths of the eaves seemed to hold shadows in which the spirits of enemies peered out in silent laughter at Mara’s grief. Hokanu wished for a moment he had overridden her bold choice and opted to adhere to the customs of conquest that would have seen this house torn down, each stone carried to the lake and thrown into the deep, each timber and field burned, and the soil of all these lush acres sown with salt. Unlucky ground should nurture nothing, according to the ways adhered to over the centuries, that the cycle of cursed events might be broken for eternity. Despite the beauty of this estate, and the near-impregnable location of its grounds and holdings, Hokanu repressed the cold premonition that he might be doomed never to find happiness with Mara as long as they lived under this roof. But this was an ill time to brood, with the state guests already arriving. The consort to the Servant of the Empire stiffened his shoulders, prepared for the coming ordeal. Mara must show the proper Tsurani bearing in the face of her overwhelming grief. The death of her father and brother, who were warriors, had been one thing; the loss of her own child, far worse. Hokanu intuitively sensed that this was the ugliest fate that could have befallen the woman he loved more than life. For her he must be strong today, armor against public dishonor, for while he was still the dedicated heir of the Shinzawai, he embraced Acoma honor as if it were his own. Secure in his resolve, he returned to the terrace outside his Lady’s sleeping quarters. As the screens were not yet opened, he knew that the servants had allowed her undisturbed rest. He slid the panel soundlessly in its track and entered. He did not speak but let the gentle warmth of daylight fall upon his wife’s cheek. Mara stirred. Her hands closed in the twisted sheets, and her eyes fluttered open. She gasped and pushed herself up. Her eyes swept the room in terror until Hokanu knelt and captured her in his embrace. Her complexion looked as if she had not slept at all. ‘Is it time?’ Hokanu stroked her shoulder, as servants who had waited outside hurried in at the sound of their mistress’s voice. He said, ‘The day begins.’ Gently he helped raise his Lady to her feet. When he had steadied her, he backed away and gestured for the servants to perform their offices. Mara stood with a bleak expression as her maids bustled to arrange her bath and her dress. Hokanu endured the sight of her lackluster manner without showing the anger in his heart. If Jiro of the Anasati was responsible for causing this pain to his Lady, the heir to the Shinzawai vowed to see the man suffer. Then, recalled to his own state of undress by the admiring stare of one of Mara’s handmaids, he put aside thoughts of revenge. He clapped for his own servants, and suffered their fussing in silence as they arrayed him in the formal robes required for Ayaki’s funeral. The throng mantled the hills surrounding the Acoma estate house, clothed in the colors of a thousand houses, with red sashes, red ties, or red ribbons worn in homage to the Red God, brother to Sibi, who was Death, and lord of all lives. The color also symbolised the heart’s blood of the boy that no longer flowed to clothe the spirit. Six thousand soldiers stood in columns flanking the hollow where the bier awaited. In front, in polished green armor, stood the Acoma warriors who had dedicated their lives; behind these, the ranks in the blue of Mara’s Shinzawai consort; and after them, the gold-edged white of the Imperial Guard sent by Ichindar to carry the Emperor’s condolences. Next came Kamatsu of the Shinzawai, Hokanu’s father, and then the families who made up the Hadama Clan, all who had blood ties to the dead boy. After them, in a great, sprawling crowd, stood the houses who had come to pay their respects or to indulge in the next round of the Great Game. The warriors were statue-still, heads bowed, shields held with edges resting upon the ground. Before each lay a sword, points facing the bier, empty scabbard placed crosswise beneath. Behind the soldiers, up the hillside, members of the household kept a respectful distance from the line of march, for the great of the Empire had come to bid farewell to a boy. Trumpets blew to begin the procession. In the shade of the outer portico where the Acoma advisers and officers gathered to march, Mara fought the weakness in her knees. She felt Hokanu’s grip on her elbow, but the meaning of the sensation did not register. The eyes half hidden behind her red veil of mourning were locked on the litter that held her motionless son. His body was encased in fine armor; his white hands clasped the grip of a rare metal sword. The hand that had been crushed in the fall was decently clothed in a gauntlet; the mashed chest, hidden behind a breastplate and shield emblazoned with a shatra bird in rare gold leaf. To the eye, he seemed a sleeping warrior, prepared at a call to arise and fight in the glory and honor of his youth. Mara felt her throat close. No prior event, not placing the mementos of her father and brother in the family’s glade to mourn them, not enduring her first husband’s brutality, not losing the first man with whom she had discovered the passion of love, not the death of her beloved foster mother – nothing compared to this moment for sheer horror. She could not believe, even now, far less accept the finality of her firstborn’s death. A child whose life had made hers endurable, through her unhappy first marriage. An infant whose carefree laughter had weaned her from despair, when she had faced enemies greater than the means of her house to defend. Ayaki had given her the courage to go on. Out of stubbornness, and a fierce desire to see him live to carry on the Acoma name, Mara had accomplished the impossible. All would be consigned to ashes, this day. This accursed day, when a boy who should have outlived his mother would become a pillar of smoke to assault the nostrils of heaven. A step behind Mara, baby Justin fretfully asked to be carried. His nurse cajoled him to stand hushing his noise. His mother seemed deaf to his distress, locked as she was in dark thoughts. She moved like a puppet to Hokanu’s guidance as the retinue prepared to start forward. Drums beat. The tattoo thrummed on the air. An acolyte clad in red thrust a dyed ke-reed into the Lady’s unfeeling hands; Hokanu’s fingers clasped hers, raising the reed with her lest she drop the religious symbol. The procession moved. Hokanu gathered her into the crook of his arm and steadied her into the slow march. To honor her loss, he had forsaken the blue armor of the Shinzawai for the green of the Acoma and an officer’s helm. Vaguely Mara knew he grieved, and distantly she sensed the sorrow of the others – the hadonra, who had so often shouted at the boy for spilling ink in the scriptorium; the nurses and teachers, who had all borne bruises from his tantrums; the advisers, who had sometimes wished for a warrior’s sword to knock sense into the boy’s mischievous head by whacking the flat on his backside. Servants and maids and even slaves had appreciated Ayaki’s quick spirit. But they were as shadows, and their words of consolation just noise. Nothing anyone said or did seemed to penetrate the desolation that surrounded the Lady of the Acoma. Mara felt Hokanu’s hand gently upon her arm, guiding her down the low stairs. Here waited the first of the state delegations: Ichindar’s, clad in blinding white and gold. Mara bent her head as the regal contingent bowed to her; she stayed silent behind her veils as Hokanu murmured the appropriate words. She was moved on, past Lord Hoppara of the Xacatecas, so long a staunch ally; today she presented to him the manner she would show a stranger, and only Hokanu heard the young man’s graceful expression of understanding. At his side, elegant as always, the dowager Lady of the Xacatecas regarded the Good Servant with something more magnanimous than sympathy. As Hokanu made his bow to her, Lady Isashani lingeringly caught his hand. ‘Keep your Lady close,’ she warned while she outwardly maintained the appearance of offering a personal condolence. ‘She is a spirit still in shock. Very likely she will not recognise the import of her actions for some days yet. There are enemies here who would provoke her to gain advantage.’ Hokanu’s politeness took on a grim edge as he thanked Lord Hoppara’s mother for her precaution. These nuances passed Mara by, as well as the skill with which Hokanu turned aside the veiled insults of the Omechan. She made her bows at her Lord’s cue, and did not care as she roused whispers in her wake: that she had shown more obeisance than necessary to Lord Frasai of the Tonmargu; that the Lord of the Inrodaka noticed that her movements lacked her characteristic fire and grace. She had no focus in life beyond the small, fragile form that lay in final rest upon the litter. Plodding steps followed in time to the thud of muffled drums. The sun climbed overhead as the procession wound into the hollow where the pyre had been prepared. Hokanu murmured polite words to the last and least of the Ruling Lords who merited personal recognition. Between the litter and the pyre waited one last contingent, robed in unadorned black. Touched by awe, Hokanu forced his next step, his hand tightening upon Mara. If she realised she confronted five Great Ones, magicians of the Assembly, she gave no sign. That their kind was above the law and that they had seen fit to send a delegation to this event failed to give her pause. Hokanu was the one to ponder the ramifications, and to connect that of late the Black Robes seemed to have taken a keener interest than usual in the turnings of politics. Mara bowed to the Great Ones as she had to any other Lord, unmindful of the sympathy offered by the plump Hochopepa, whom she had met at the occasion of Tasaio’s ritual suicide. The always awkward moment when Hokanu faced his true father was lost on her. The icy regard of the red-haired magician who stood behind the more taciturn Shimone did not faze her. Whether hostile or benign, the magicians’ words could not pierce through her apathy. No life their powers could threaten meant more than the one Turakamu and the Game of the Council had already seen fit to take. Mara entered the ritual circle where the bier lay. She watched with stony eyes as her Force Commander lifted the too still form of her boy and laid him tenderly on the wood that would be his final bed. His hands straightened sword and helm and shield, and he stepped back, all his rakishness absent. Mara felt Hokanu’s gentle prod. Numbly she stepped forward as around her the drums boomed and stilled. She lowered the ke-reed across Ayaki’s body, but it was Hokanu’s voice that raised in the traditional cry: ‘We are gathered to commemorate the life of Ayaki, son of Buntokapi, grandson of Tecuma and Sezu!’ The line was too short, Mara sensed, a vague frown on her face. Where were the lists of life deeds, for this her firstborn son? An awkward stillness developed, until Lujan moved at a desperate glance from Hokanu and nudged her around to face the east. The priest of Chochocan approached, robed in the white that symbolised life. He shed his mantle and danced, naked as at birth, in celebration of childhood. Mara did not see his gyrations; she felt no expiation for the guilt of knowing her laxity had caused disaster. As the dancer bowed to earth before the bier, she faced west when prompted, and stood, dull-eyed, as the whistles of Turakamu’s followers split the air, as the priest of the Red God began his dance for Ayaki’s safe passage to the halls of the Red God. He had never needed to represent a barbarian beast before, and his idea of how a horse might move had been almost laughable had it not ended in the fall to earth that had crushed so much young promise. Mara’s eyes stayed dry. Her heart felt hardened to a kernel incapable of being renewed. She did not bow her head in prayer as the priests stepped forward and slashed the red cord that bound Ayaki’s hands, freeing his spirit for rebirth. She did not weep, or beg the gods’ favor, as the white-plumed tirik bird was released as symbol of the renewal of rebirth. The priest of Turakamu intoned his prayer for Ayaki. ‘In the end, all men come before my god. The Death God is a kind Lord, for he ends suffering and pain. He judges those who come to him and rewards the righteous.’ With a broad wave of his hand and a nod of his skull mask, the priest added, ‘He understands the living and knows of pain and grief.’ The red wand pointed to the armored boy on the pyre. ‘Ayaki of the Acoma was a good son, firmly upon the path that his parents would have wished for him. We can only accept that Turakamu judged him worthy and called him so that he might be returned to us, with an even greater fate.’ Mara clenched her teeth to keep from crying. What prayer was there to be said that would not be tainted with rage, and what rebirth beyond being son of the Light of Heaven himself could await that was more honorable than heirship of the Acoma? As Mara shivered in pent fury, Hokanu’s arms closed around her. He murmured something she did not hear as the torches were lifted from their brackets around the circle and the aromatic wood was set alight. A cold band twisted itself around her heart. She watched the red-yellow flames lick upward, her thoughts very far from the present. As the priest of Juran the Just approached to give her blessing, only Hokanu’s surreptitious shake prevented her from screaming curses at him, demanding to know what sort of justice existed in a world where little boys died before their mother’s eyes. The flames crackled skyward, then sheeted over the pyre with a roar of disturbed air. The treated wood spared the sight of the boy’s body twisting and blackening in its embrace. Yet Mara looked upon the sight with every fiber of her body braced in horror. Her imagination depicted what lay at the heart of a brightness too dazzling for sight; her mind supplied the screams the boy had never uttered. ‘Ayaki,’ she whispered. Hokanu’s hold upon her tightened with enough force to recall her momentarily to propriety: to the stiff-faced mask that as Servant of the Empire she was expected to show in public grief. But the effort of holding her features immobile was enough to cause her to tremble. For long minutes the crackle of flames vied with the voices of the priests who chanted their various prayers. Mara fought to control her breathing, to stave off the monstrous reality of her dead child vanishing into a roil of smoke. For the death rite of one of lesser station, this would be time for the guests to file away, leaving those closest to the departed to a time of private mourning. But with the passing of the great, such courtesies were forborne. Mara was allowed no reprieve. At the forefront of the public eye she remained, while the acolytes of Turakamu threw consecrated oil upon the flames. Waves of heat rolled off the pyre, reddening Mara’s skin. If she shed any tears, they dried upon her cheeks in the face of that cruel furnace. Above writhing curtains of flame, the thick black smoke coiled skyward to draw notice from heaven that a spirit of high honor had departed. The sun added to the blaze, and Mara felt sick and dizzy. Hokanu turned his body to shade her as he could. He dared not glance at her too often in concern, for fear of betraying her weakness, while the time dragged by as torture. Nearly an hour passed before the flame subsided; then more prayers and chanting followed as the wood-ashes were spread to cool. Mara all but swayed on her feet when the priest of Turakamu intoned, ‘The body is no more. The spirit has flown. He who was Ayaki of the Acoma is now here,’ he said, touching his heart, ‘here’ – he touched his head – ‘and in Turakamu’s halls.’ The acolytes braved the smoking embers as they picked their way to the heart of the mound of decimated fuel. One used a square of thick leather to drag out the warped blade of Ayaki’s sword, quickly passing the bundle to another who waited to quench the hot metal in wet rags. Steam rose to mingle with the smoke. Mara endured with deadened eyes as the priest of Turakamu employed an ornate scoop to fill the waiting urn with ashes. More wood than boy, the remains would become the symbol of the body’s interment in the glade of his ancestors. For the Tsurani believed that while the true soul traveled to the halls of the Red God, a small part of the spirit, the shade, would rest alongside its ancestors within the stone that was the natami of the house. That way the essence of the child would thus return in another life, while that which made him Acoma would remain to watch over his family. Hokanu steadied his wife as two acolytes arrived before her. One offered the sword blade, which Mara touched. Then Hokanu took the twisted length of metal while the other acolyte surrendered the urn. Mara accepted the ashes of her son in trembling hands. Her eyes did not acknowledge what she held but remained fixed upon the scattered, charred wood that remained in the circle. Hokanu touched her arm lightly and they turned as one. The drums boomed out as the procession veered around and resumed its march toward the Acoma contemplation glade. No impression of the walk registered upon Mara beyond the stony cold of the urn in her hands, warmed at the base by the still warm ashes inside. She set one foot before the other, barely aware of her arrival at the scrolled gateposts that marked the glade entrance. The servants and Hokanu paused in deference to her; for the only one not of Acoma blood who was permitted to step through the arch and make his way along the stone path that led within was the gardener whose life had been dedicated to tend the glade. Here even her husband, who was still a Shinzawai, could not enter, upon pain of death. To allow any stranger admittance was to offer insult to the shades of Acoma ancestors, and to bring lasting disharmony to the peace that abided in the natami. Mara stepped away from Hokanu’s embrace. She did not hear the murmur of the nobles who watched, pitying or predatory, until she had moved beyond sight behind the hedges. Once before, upon her family’s old estate, she had undertaken the terrible task of consecrating the shades of close family to the natami. The size of this garden disoriented her. She paused, the urn clutched to her breast in stunned incomprehension. This was not the familiar glade of her childhood, where she had gone as a tiny girl to address the shade of her mother; this was not the known path where she had narrowly escaped death at the hands of a tong assassin while mourning her father and brother. This place was alien, vast, a wide park, in which several streams meandered. For a second a shadow crossed her heart as she wondered whether this garden that had been home to Minwanabi shades for so many centuries might reject the aspect of her son. Again in her memory she saw the horse fall, a blackness like evil stamping out innocent life. Feeling lost, she gulped a breath. She chose a path at random, only vaguely recalling that all of them led to the same site where the ancient rock, the natami of her family, rested at the edge of a large pool. ‘I did not bury your natami deep below the Acoma’s,’ she said aloud to the listening air; a smaller voice inside her warned that she talked out of madness. Life was mad, she decided, or she would not be here making empty motions over the remains of her young heir. Her extraordinary display of graciousness in insisting that the Minwanabi natami be taken to a distant place and cared for, so that the shades of the Minwanabi might know peace, at this moment seemed empty folly. She did not have the strength in her to laugh. Mara curled her lip at the sour taste in her mouth. Her hair smelled of sweet oil and greasy smoke. The stench turned her stomach as she knelt on the sun-warmed ground. Next to the natami a hole had been dug, the damp soil piled to one side. Mara placed the fire-warped sword that had been her son’s most prized possession in the cavity, then tipped the urn to let his ashes pour over it. With bare hands she sifted the earth back into the hole and patted it down. A white robe had been left for her beside the pool. On its silk folds lay a vial, and nearby, the traditional brazier and dagger. Mara lifted the vial and removed the stopper. She poured fragrant oils upon the pool. In the shimmers of fractured light that played upon its surface, she saw no beauty, but only the face of her son, his mouth wide with suffering as he struggled to draw his last breath. The rituals gave no release but seemed a wasting wind of meaningless sound. ‘Rest, my son. Come to your home soil and sleep with our ancestors.’ ‘Ayaki,’ she whispered. ‘My child.’ She gripped the breast of her robe and pulled, tearing the cloth from her body, but unlike years before, when she had performed the ritual for her father and brother, no tears followed the violence. Her eyes remained painfully dry. She plunged her hand into the almost extinguished brazier. The sting of the few hot cinders remaining was not enough to focus her thoughts. Grief remained a dull ache inside her as she smeared the ashes across her breasts and down her exposed stomach, to symbolise that her heart was ashes. In truth, her flesh felt as lifeless as the spent wood of the pyre. She slowly lifted the heirloom metal dagger, kept sharp for this ceremony over the ages. For the third time in her life, she drew the blade from its sheath and cut herself across the left arm, the hot pain barely felt in the fog of her despair. She held the small wound over the pool, letting drops of blood fall to mix with the water, as tradition required. For more than a minute she sat motionless, until nature’s healing staunched the flow. A scab had half dried before she absently tugged at her robe, but she lacked the fierceness of will to fully sunder the garment. In the end, she simply dragged it over her head. It fell to earth, one sleeve soaking up oil and water from the pool. By rote, Mara unfastened her hairpins, loosening her dark locks over her shoulders. Anger and rage, grief and sorrow should have driven her to pull upon her tresses, yanking handfuls lose. Her emotions only smoldered sullenly, like a spark smothered by lack of air. Boys should not die; to grieve for them in a fullness of passion was to abet the acceptance of their passing. Mara twisted at a few tangles, outwardly listless. Then she settled back upon her heels and regarded the glade. Such immaculate beauty, and only she among the living could appreciate it. Ayaki would never perform the death rite for his mother. Hot tears erupted unbidden and she felt something of the hardness wedged within break loose. Mara sobbed, abandoning herself to an outpouring of grief. But unlike before, when such release brought clarity, this time she found herself driven deeper into chaotic thought. When she closed her eyes, her mind whirled with images: first Ayaki running, then Kevin, the barbarian slave who had taught her of love, and who had time and again risked his life for her alien honor. She saw Buntokapi, sprawled on the red length of his sword, his great ham fists quivering closed as the life left his body. Again she acknowledged that her first husband’s death would forever be marked against her. She saw faces: her father and brother, then Nacoya, her nurse and foster mother. All of them offered her pain. Kevin’s return to his own world was as painful a loss as death, and not one other had died as nature intended; all had been casualties of twisted politics, and of the cruel machinations of the Great Game. The horrid certainty would not leave her, that Ayaki would not be the last boy to die for the empty ambitions of the nation’s Ruling Lords. That reality struck her like torture: that Ayaki would not be the last. Howling in hysteria born of agony, Mara threw herself headlong into the pool. The wetness swallowed her tears. Her sobs were wrenched short by a gasp as cold water sucked into her nostrils, and life recalled her to its own. She crawled back on dry earth, choking. Water streamed from her mouth and hair. She dragged in a hacking breath, then reached mechanically for the robe, its whiteness marred by dirt and sweet oil. As if she were a spirit wearing the body of a stranger, she saw herself drag the fabric over her wet flesh. The hair she left bunched under the collar. Then the body that felt like a living prison gathered itself up and trudged back toward the entrance to the glade, where thousands waited with eyes hostile or friendly. Their presence took her aback. In this Lord’s fatuous smile and that Lord’s leering interest, she saw the truth confirmed: that Ayaki’s death would happen again and again, and other mothers after her would howl useless outrage at the injustices of the Great Game. Mara glanced down to shut away the acknowledgment of futility. One of her sandals was missing. Mud and dust caked her bared foot, and she hesitated, debating whether to look for the lost footwear, or to fling the remaining sandal into the hedge. What did it matter, a far-off voice reasoned inside her. Mara watched her misshod feet with fey detachment as the person that was herself left the glade. Passing between the shielding hedges, she did not look up as her husband hurried forward to take up his station at her elbow. His words did not soothe. She did not want to return from her inward retreat to work at sorting their meaning. Hokanu shook her gently, forcing her to look up. A man in red armor stood before her; thin, elegant, poised, he carried his chin at an arrogant angle. Mara stared at him, distracted. His eyes narrowed. He said something. The hand that held some object in it gestured, and something of the biting scorn that underlay his manner came through. Mara’s gaze sharpened. Her eyes focused on the device upon the young man’s helm, and a deep quiver shook her. ‘Anasati!’ she said, a bite like a whip’s crack to her voice. Lord Jiro gave back a chilly smile. ‘The Lady deigns to acknowledge me, I see.’ Wakened to a slow, spiraling rage, Mara stiffened. She said nothing. Hokanu’s fingers wrenched unobtrusively at her wrist, a warning she did not acknowledge. Her ears rang to a sound like a thousand enraged sarcats spitting in defiance, or torrents of storm-swollen rivers crashing down jagged rock. Jiro of the Anasati raised the object he held, a small puzzle cleverly cut to a pattern of interlacing wooden hoops. He inclined his head in a formal bow, saying, ‘My nephew’s shade deserves remembrance from the Anasati.’ ‘Remembrance!’ Mara said, in a high, tortured whisper. Inside her mind, her spirit howled: Anasati remembrance had sent her firstborn to a bed of ashes. She did not remember moving; she did not feel the wrench of tendons as she yanked free of Hokanu’s restraint. Her scream of rage cut across the gathering like the sound of a drawn metal sword, and her hands rose like claws. Jiro leaped back, dropping the puzzle in horrified astonishment. And then Mara was on him, clawing to reach his throat through the fastenings of his armor. Those Lords standing nearest exclaimed in shock as this small woman, unarmed, dirty, and wet, threw herself at her former brother-in-law in a fit of pure fury. Hokanu sprang with all his warrior’s quickness, fast enough to catch Mara back before she drew blood. He smothered her struggling body in his embrace. But the damage by then was irrevocable. Jiro glared around at the circle of stunned onlookers. ‘You all bear witness!’ he cried in an indignation that held an undertone of wild joy. Now he had the justification he had long wished for, to see the Lady Mara ground under his heel in utter defeat. ‘The Acoma have offered the Anasati insult! Let all present be informed that alliance is dead between our two houses. I claim my right to expunge this shame to my honor, and blood will be called for in payment.’ • Chapter Three • War (#ulink_cf871e49-0302-5d57-9c92-96d2eb92de6a) Hokanu acted. While Mara beat her fists in mindless fury against his breastplate, the warriors of her honor guard closed in a tight ring to shield their Lady’s hysteria from public view. Hokanu called urgently for Saric and Incomo. One glance at their distraught mistress was sufficient to convince the two advisers: grief and nerves had overwhelmed her. She was past recognition of individual faces, and obviously beyond any capacity to issue a public apology to Lord Jiro. It had been the sight of him that had set off this breakdown. Even should reason return to her before the guests departed, it would not be wise to encourage a meeting between injured parties so she might ask forgiveness. Worse damage might result. The two advisers, one old and practiced, the other young and talented, could see that already the scope of the trouble her lapse had created was widening. It was too late, now, to mend the past. Hokanu realised that he should have heeded Isashani’s warning more closely, but he must not allow regret for his miscalculation to hamper the need for fast decisions. ‘Saric,’ he rapped out, ‘issue a statement. Tell no falsehoods, but select your words to insinuate that our Lady has fallen ill. We need immediate tactics to soften Jiro’s accusations of insult, which will certainly come within hours, and to find a sane reason to dismiss the state guests.’ The dark-haired First Adviser bowed and ducked away, already composing his words of formal announcement. Unasked, Force Commander Lujan stepped to the fore. Despite the Ruling Lords who crowded against his warriors, to gape at the prostrate Mara, he did not turn his face from her shame, but stripped off bracers, sword, and belt knife, then bent to lend his aid to subdue Mara’s struggles without causing her bruises. With a glance of profound relief, Hokanu continued with instructions to Incomo. ‘Hurry back to the estate house. Assemble Mara’s maids, and find her a healer who can mix a soporific. Then see to the guests. We need help from what allies we have left to avert an outbreak’ of armed hostilities.’ ‘Lord Hoppara and the Xacatecas forces stand with you,’ announced a husky female voice. The tight ranks of honor guard swirled aside to admit the elegant, yellow-and-purple-robed form of Lady Isashani, who had used the almost mystical effect of her beauty and poise to gain passage between the warriors. ‘And I can help with Mara.’ Hokanu assessed the sincerity of the concern in her exotic dark eyes, then nodded. ‘Gods pity us for my lack of understanding,’ he murmured by way of apology. ‘Your house has all our gratitude.’ Then he turned the charge of his Lady over to the feminine wisdom of the Xacatecas dowager. ‘She has not gone mad,’ Lady Isashani answered, her fine hand closing over Mara’s in comfort. ‘Sleep and quiet will restore her, and time will heal her grief. You must be patient.’ Then, back to the hardcore immediacy of politics, she added, ‘I have set my two advisers to waylay the Omechan and the Inrodaka. My honor guard, under Hoppara, will find ways to interpose themselves where they will most hamper other troublemongers.’ Two fewer enemies to concern them; Hokanu tossed back a harried nod. Mara had staunch friends against the vicious factions who sought to pull her down. She was beloved by many in these nations. It tore his heart not to be able to stay at her side when she was in such a terrible state. He forced his gaze away from the small cortege that formed to convey his distraught Lady to the comfort of the estate house. To let his heart rule him at this time was fool’s play. He must harden himself, as if he stood on the brink of deadly combat. There were enemies in plenty who had attended Ayaki’s last rites precisely to grab advantage from an opportunity like this. Mara’s insult to Jiro was by now past forgiveness. Bloodshed would result – that was a foregone conclusion – but only a fool would initiate an assault in the heart of Mara’s estate, with her army gathered to pay honor to Ayaki. Once beyond the borders of the Acoma lands, Mara’s enemies would start their mischief. Hokanu moved now in an attempt to stave off immediate war. The Acoma stood to be ruined if he misstepped; not only that, but the warriors and resources of the Shinzawai might be sucked into gainless strife also. All that had been won in the past three years to secure centralised rule for the Emperor might be thrown away at a stroke. Council must be called, to see what could be done to stave off more widespread disaster. Those Lords who held allegiance to neither Mara nor Jiro would have to be wooed, cajoled, or threatened, so that those openly opposed to her would think twice before challenging the Good Servant. ‘Lujan,’ Hokanu called over the rising tumult to the Acoma Force Commander, ‘arm the garrison, and call up the most level-headed of your officers. No matter what the provocation, at all costs set your patrols to keep the peace.’ The high green plumes of the officer’s helm bobbed acknowledgment over the chaos. Hokanu spared a moment for thanks to the gods that Mara had chosen her staff for intelligence and sense. Cool heads were their only hope of extricating House Acoma from devastation. Saddened by this turn of affairs, Hokanu directed the honor guard to march back to the estate house. Had Mara been less herself, and more the pliant wife that so many Empire women became as a result of their traditional upbringing, she would never have been strong enough to have attended a full state funeral for a son cut down by assassins. As Ruling Lady, and Servant of the Empire, she was too much in the public eye, denied even the human frailties that any lesser mother might be forgiven. Caught up in the heated core of intrigues, Lady Mara was forced into a role that made her a target. A frantic hour later, Mara lay on her sleeping mat, stupefied by potions administered by the priest of Hantukama, who had appeared as if by magic to offer his skills. Isashani had the household well in hand, and the short hadonra, Jican, was as busy as three men, quelling wild rumors among the servants. Hokanu found himself alone to deal with the decisions that must be made in behalf of House Acoma. He listened to the reports of the Acoma retainers. He took notes for Mara to review, when she was restored and capable. He marked which guests stood by her, and which were outspoken against her. Most had the dignity to stay silent, or else they were too shocked to frame any hostile response. All had expected to spend the day in quiet contemplation, then to be hosted by the Servant of the Empire at a formal evening meal. Instead, they were already returning home, appalled by an unforgivable act authored by a woman who held the highest office in the land, short of the Emperor’s throne. More than one delegate of great houses had stopped by, ostensibly to pay their respects, but except for the Lord of the Keda, Hokanu had murmured empty thanks to men eager to catch any hint that House Acoma stood weakened. Lord Hoppara and the Lords of Clan Hadama were doing a fine job of moving through the crowds of departing guests, toning down the damage of Mara’s act against the Anasati by whatever expedient they could find. Many who were all too ready to be outraged by the breach of protocol became more inclined to overlook a grieving mother’s outburst after one of the Hadama Lords or Lord Hoppara had finished speaking to them. Another noble frustrated in his attempts to reach the inner apartments had been the Lord of the Anasati. Jiro had stiffly insisted that the insult to his person was irreparable. A pack of supporters had clustered at his heels as he was turned away from Mara’s door. They had found a common rallying point, and even those who had counted Mara a friend would be hard pressed to ignore a personal attack; for an enemy, it was impossible. In Tsurani culture, forgiveness was simply a less shameful form of weakness than capitulation. All in the course of seconds, the Lady had changed political opponents into allies of deadly enemies. Jiro had not sued for public apology; indeed, he had surrounded himself with Lords whose disgruntlement with Ichindar’s reformed powers of rule was most vociferous. Saric and Incomo shared the conclusion that the Anasati Lord was deliberately discouraging conciliatory overtures, choosing to place blame for the scandal squarely upon the Acoma. Jiro’s loud complaints reached any who hovered within earshot: that he had come to his nephew’s funeral under what was understood as a traditional truce by all who attended, and had endured physical attack, humiliation at the hands of his host, and public accusation. As much as any ruler understood or sympathised with the source of Mara’s irrational act, none could deny that deadly insult had been given, with no atonement offered. Any attempt to deflect the accusation by pointing out Mara’s present inability to offer a rational apology was ignored by the Anasati. The hall of the Acoma had grown stifling, its screens drawn closed against the prying eyes of the curious, its doors guarded by the scarred veterans of past wars. These men did not wear the brightly lacquered ceremonial armor but field trappings well tested by previous engagements. Sitting upon a lower, less formal dais that was deserted in Mara’s absence, Hokanu quietly requested opinions on the day’s events. That the closest, most loyal Acoma officers chose to respond to a consort who was not their sworn house Lord showed their immeasurable regard for Hokanu’s judgment. If the honor of these men’s vows was not his to command, they awarded him their absolute trust to act as needed in their mistress’s behalf. Touched as he was by their devotion, he was also disturbed, for it signified how deeply they understood Mara’s peril. Hokanu prayed that he was up to the task. He listened in grave stillness as Force Leader Irrilandi and Keyoke, Adviser for War, reviewed the strength of the garrison, even as Force Commander Lujan readied the Acoma forces for battle. As if in emphasis, old Keyoke thumped his crutch against the stump of his lost leg. ‘Even if Jiro knows he will be defeated, he has no choice: honor requires he answer public insult with bloodshed. I doubt he will settle for a contest of champions. Worse, if Mara’s cries of accusation were heard by any beyond those close by, her implication that Jiro hired the Hamoi Tong to kill Ayaki could be taken as an insult to the Ionani that can only end in a Call to Clan.’ Absolute stillness followed this statement, making the footfalls of rushing servants echo through the hall. Several of those at the table turned to listen to the calls of house officers, gathering their masters’ families into personal litters for a quick departure, and a few looked at one another and shared a common understanding: a Clan War would rip the Empire asunder. Into the face of such grim musing, Saric ventured, ‘But who could take such a concept seriously? No tong dares reveal their employers, and what evidence we found to link the Anasati to the attack is hardly compelling, given the Hamoi Brotherhood’s clandestine practices. I’m more inclined to suspect it’s an intentional false trail.’ Incomo nodded, wagging a crooked finger. ‘The evidence of Jiro’s hand in Ayaki’s death is too neat. No tong survives to win itself wealthy clients by being this imprudent. And the Hamoi is the most powerful tong because its secrets have never been compromised.’ He scanned the faces around the table. ‘After – what? five attempts upon Mara – they suddenly allow one of their own to be caught with proof of Anasati participation? Unlikely. Certainly questionable. Hardly convincing.’ Hokanu regarded the advisers with a flash in his eyes as dire as light on barbarian steel. ‘We need Arakasi back.’ The gifts of the Acoma Spy Master were many, and his ability to read through the snarl of politics and individual greed of the Nations’ myriad Ruling Lords at times approached the uncanny. ‘We need him to pursue this evidence that supports Jiro’s guilt, for the boy’s true murderer lies behind it.’ Hokanu sighed. ‘Meantime, speculation is leading us nowhere. With Tasaio of the Minwanabi gone, who dares seek the death of the Servant of the Empire?’ Saric scratched his chin in the gloom. Not without sympathy, he said, ‘Master, you are blinded by love for your wife. The common folk of the Nations may regard her as a talisman, but her exalted station invites jealousy from other hearts. Many would see the Good Servant on her way to Turakamu’s halls, simply because of her breaks with tradition, and her climb to a rank unmatched by any previous Warlord. Also there are many who see their House status lessened, and their ambitions curtailed, because she is favored by Ichindar. They would seek Mara’s dishonor … if they dared.’ Hokanu looked impatient. ‘Then who would dare?’ ‘Of us all, Arakasi might know.’ Glancing at Incomo, Saric tactfully phrased the question that played upon his restless mind. ‘Is there any reason to think that your former master might be reaching from the land of the dead to strike a blow in vengeance?’ As Keyoke’s eyes hardened at this possibility, the former First Adviser to the Lord of the Minwanabi, now Second Adviser to the Lady of the Acoma, cleared his throat. He unflinchingly met the distrust that focused on him. ‘If so, I was no part of such a plot. But Tasaio was a secretive man, and dangerous. Many times he was wont to make arrangements outside my knowledge. I was often dismissed when most Lords would have commanded my attendance. The Obajan of the Hamoi Tong was seen to pay a personal visit to Tasaio. My impression at the time was that the event involved unanswered questions over the murder of Acoma spies then in Minwanabi service.’ Incomo’s long face showed unguarded distaste as he concluded, ‘Threats were exchanged, and a bargain struck. But no man alive overheard the words that passed between the Obajan and Tasaio. I can only relate that never in life did I observe the Lord of the Minwanabi so balked in his plans that he lost himself to a display of wild anger. Tasaio was many things, but he was seldom without control.’ To this, Saric added speculative observation. ‘If the former First Adviser of the Minwanabi cannot know for certain that Tasaio left orders for vengeance should he fall, I offer that we waste ourselves in guesswork. More to the point, Tasaio was not a man who ever for a moment considered defeat – as tactician he was unmatched. Given that he believed until the end that he was free to crush our Lady in open war, why should we assume that he took the coward’s path and paid death price for Mara when he gave no credence to the chance she might survive him? We should more nearly be examining the ranks of Jiro’s enemies. Mara is one of the few Rulers in the Nations with strength enough to engage him without stalemate; with Imperial support behind her, discord between Acoma and Anasati is the more likely to lead to setbacks for Lord Jiro.’ ‘And yet the Anasati Lord seems eager enough to take what provocation fate and our misfortune have offered,’ Hokanu broke in. ‘He does not shrink from conflict. That does little to excuse him from culpability in the matter of Ayaki’s murder. Until my wife is able, I will presume to make this decision. Order the garrison to make ready to march. There must be war, and we dare not be caught unprepared.’ Keyoke silently inclined his head. He would not accord the situation the formality of spoken word, since this he could only do before his Lady. Yet his acquiescence in the matter showed unswerving support. Saric, who was younger and less bound to the old traditions, inclined his head in a gesture very close to the bow an adviser would offer his sworn Lord. ‘I shall make formal declaration of war upon the Anasati. When Jiro responds in kind, we shall march.’ Keyoke glanced at Irrilandi, who nodded to indicate his own endorsement of what would soon occur. Most Tsurani bloodshed was committed surreptitiously, with ambush and raid, and without public acknowledgment of responsibility. But formal battle between houses was a time honored, ceremonial event. Two armies would meet upon a field at an agreed-upon time, and one would leave victorious. No quarter was asked or given, save in rare circumstances, and again by formal rules of conduct. History held record of battles that had raged for days; it was not uncommon for both houses to be destroyed in the process. Then Hokanu sought one further step. ‘I ask that we notify Clan Hadama.’ Saric raised his eyebrows, concerned deeply, but also intrigued by the subtleties of the suggestion. ‘You provoke an Anasati Call to Clan?’ Hokanu sighed, ‘I have an intuitive feeling –’ But Keyoke broke in with a rare interruption that supported Hokanu’s hunch. ‘Jiro is no warrior. He has Omelo for Force Commander, and though a good enough field general in his own right, he does not excel at large scale engagements. A Call to Clan is the best hope Jiro has to keep his House and army intact. We do not provoke what is likely a foregone conclusion.’ ‘More,’ Incomo added. ‘Lord Jiro is a scholar at heart. He sneers at the coarseness of armed conflict. He wishes reason to declare against Mara, and has nurtured a hatred of her that extends back into his youth. But he prefers hidden attacks, and cleverness. He is a master of shah. Remember that. He will seek to ruin by subterfuge, not raw force. If we do call a Clan War first, then the possibility exists that Clan Ionani will not permit an Anasati interest to drag them to destruction. We are more than Jiro’s match in open combat. If his Clan members are behind his obsessive desires enough to escalate by accepting his slight of honor for their own, Clan Hadama will answer.’ Hokanu weighed this without much hope or enthusiasm. Whether Clan Ionani moved against them or not Lord Jiro had managed to set himself at the spearhead of other factions that had cause to undermine Mara’s strength. That his was not the only mind to perceive past this personal spat to deeper, more lasting discord had been evident by the number of Ruling Lords who turned out for Ayaki’s funeral. The High Council might be abolished, but its tradition of contention continued in secret, ferocious intensity, whenever excuse existed for the Empire’s nobles to gather. That the Black Robes had sent a contingent of five to the rites showed that their trend of intervention into the arena of intrigue was far from ended since Ichindar’s ascension to centralised power. At last, Hokanu concluded, ‘We may have strength and allies enough to crush the Anasati, but at what cost? In the end, it may not change things. We can only hope that a swift, bloody clash on the battlefield will contain the damage, and split up the traditionalists before they can ally and organise into a united political party.’ ‘Master Hokanu,’ Saric interjected at the naked look of sorrow that appeared on the Acoma consort’s face, ‘the course you have chosen is the best we have available. Rest assured that your Lady could do no better, were she capable of hearing our counsel. Now go, attend to her, for she needs you at her side. I will instruct the scribes to prepare documents and arrange for messengers to convey them to Lord Jiro’s estates.’ Looking haunted despite the relief at this unstinting statement of support, Hokanu left the hall. His stride was a warrior’s, purposeful and quick; his hands were a worried husband’s, balled into helpless fists. Saric remained, as the other Acoma officers broke the circle and departed from the hall. Left alone in the breezeless shadows, he slapped his fist into a hand grown uncalloused since his promotion from a warrior’s ranks. He ached for those friends he had left in the barracks, and for the woman he had been called to serve, who had wholly won his support. If the Acoma acted quickly enough to end this dispute, the gods would be granting a miracle. Too many disgruntled Lords remained with too few responsibilities since the disbanding of the High Council. Peace left them too much space for mischief. The old political parties had broken up, their reason for existence canceled by Ichindar’s new rule. The Empire was quiet, but far from settled; the climate of unrest that had three years been held in abeyance was ripe for renewed civil war. Saric loved his Ruling Lady and appreciated her brilliance in changing the only society he had ever known, but he regretted the disbanding of the Warlord’s office and the power of the High Council, for at least then events could be interpreted according to centuries of precedents set by the forms of the Great Game. Now, while the old ways were still followed by the houses of the Empire, the rules were forced into change. Speculation was becoming too uncertain, Saric decided with a grimace of disgust. He left the deserted hall, heading for those quarters he had chosen when Mara had come to occupy the former Minwanabi estate. En route to his suite of rooms, he sent Mara’s runner to fetch a scribe to attend him. When the man arrived with his satchel of ink and pens, the Acoma First Adviser’s instructions were clipped and short: ‘Prepare notice for our factors and agents. If Arakasi makes his presence known anywhere in the Nations, inform him he is to return home at once.’ The scribe sat upon the floor without comment, but he looked troubled as he placed a wooden lapboard upon his knee. Quickly putting pen to parchment, he started to compose the first document. ‘Add this, and use the number seven cipher,’ Saric concluded, pacing the floor in an agitation that had no other outlet. ‘Our Lady is in deadly danger.’ The chime sounded, and a puff of disturbed air winnowed the silken hangings that walled the great gathering hall in the City of the Magicians. Shadows cast by the flickering flames of the oil lamps wavered as a magician appeared upon the pattern in the center of the floor. He stepped off briskly. Hard on his heels, two colleagues appeared in rapid succession. These were followed by others, until a crowd of black-robed figures congregated on the benches surrounding the walls. The huge, leather-hinged doors creaked wide to admit others that chose not to convey their bodies to the meeting by arcane means. The Hall of the Assembly filled swiftly and quietly. The delegates converged from all walks of the City of the Magicians, a complex of buildings and covered terraces, towers, and galleries that made a maze-like warren of an entire island. Located in the midst of a great lake in the foothills of the High Wall, the northern mountains of the Empire, the City of the Magicians was unapproachable by any means but magic. Black Robes in distant provinces teleported to the site, responding to the call to Assembly sent out that morning. Gathered together in sufficient number to form a quorum, the magicians constituted the most powerful body in Tsuranuanni, for they existed outside the law. No one, not even the Emperor, dared gainsay their command, which had carried absolute privilege for thousands of years of history. Within minutes the benches were packed to capacity. Hodiku, a thin, hook-nosed man of middle years who by preference spent most of his time in study within the Holy City, walked to the First Speaker’s position, at the center of the patterned tile floor. His voice extended across the cavernous hall seemingly without effort. ‘We are called together today so that I may speak for the Good of the Empire.’ The routine greeting was met with silence, for all matters requiring convocation of the Assembly of Great Ones related to the state of the Empire. ‘Today, the Red Seal upon the inner sanctum of the Temple of Jastur was broken!’ The announcement caused a shocked stir, for only when formal warfare was announced between houses or clans, were the arched doors to the central chamber of the Temple of the War God thrown open to allow public entry. Hodiku raised his arms to encourage a return to order. ‘Mara of the Acoma, as Lady of her House and Warchief of Clan Hadama does pronounce war upon Lord Jiro of the Anasati!’ Astonished exclamations swept the chamber. While a cadre of the younger magicians stayed abreast of current events, they were not among the majority. These newly sworn had joined the Assembly during the upheavals caused by the force known as the Enemy that had endangered both their own world of Kelewan and that of Midkemia, beyond the rift. The massive threat to two civilizations had necessitated a move by the Magicians to aid the Emperor Ichindar to seize absolute rule of the Nations, that internal bickering not weaken the land in time of larger crisis. The newest of the mages might be enamored of using their powers to influence the sway of events. But to the elders of the Assembly, who were set in their individual ways and courses of scholarly study, intervention in Tsurani politics was looked on as bad form; a bothersome chore only performed at dire need. To a still-smaller faction, headed up by Hochopepa and Shimone, once close acquaintances of the barbarian magician Milamber, the recent departures from traditional rule were of interest for deeper reasons. Exposure to Midkemian thought had prompted them to view the affairs of Tsuranuanni in a changed light, and since the Lady Mara was currently the linchpin of Ichindar’s support, these war tidings were of particular concern. An old practitioner of Tsurani politics of all stripe, Hochopepa raised a chubby hand to his face and closed his dark eyes in forbearance. ‘As you predicted,’ he murmured to the reed-thin, ascetic Shimone. ‘Trouble, when the Nations can least afford the price.’ Taciturn as ever, Shimone made no reply, but watched with hawk-keen scrutiny as several of the more impulsive magicians surged to their feet, indicating their desire to speak. Hodiku singled out a young Black Robe named Sevean and pointed. The one selected stepped forward onto the central floor while the others sat. Barely a year past his initiation to mastery of magic, Sevean was fast on his feet, quick-spoken, and inclined to be impulsive. He would leap to outspoken conclusions where other, more seasoned colleagues would wait to hear the thoughts of less experienced members before revealing their opinions. He raised a voice too loud by half for the sensitive acoustics of the hall. ‘It is widely believed that Jiro had his hand in the death of the Good Servant’s son.’ Which was no news at all; Shimone turned his mouth down in a faint curl of disgust, while Hochopepa muttered just loud enough for half the room to hear, ‘What, has he been listening in on Isashani’s sitting room again, taking in the social gossip?’ Shimone gave no answer to this; like many of the elder magicians, he considered using powers to look in on the affairs of individual nobles as the lowest level of crass behavior. Sevean was embarrassed by Hochopepa’s remark and by the harsh looks from several of the elder members. Left at a loss for words, he curtailed his speech, repeating, ‘It is widely believed.’ More magicians vied for the First Speaker’s attention. Hodiku made a choice among them, and as a slow-spoken, ponderously built initiate droned out his irrelevant viewpoint, more experienced magicians spoke quietly among themselves, ignoring all but the gist of his speech. A mage two seats to the rear of Hochopepa and Shimone, whose name was Teloro, inclined his head toward the others. ‘What is the real issue, Hocho?’ The plump magician sighed and left off twiddling his thumbs. ‘The fate of the Empire, Teloro. The fate of the Empire.’ Teloro bridled at this vagueness. Then he revised his first impression: the stout magician’s bearing might betray no concern, but his tone rang with deep conviction. Both Shimone and his stout companion seemed fixed on a discussion the other side of the hall, where several magicians held private counsel. As the current speaker sat, and a round-shouldered man from this whispering cadre stood up, Teloro heard Hochopepa mutter, ‘Now we’ll begin to see how this round of the game is to be played.’ Hodiku motioned to the man, who was slender with brown hair trimmed above his ears in the Tsurani fashion called a warrior’s cut. The style was an odd affectation for a Black Robe, but by any measures Motecha was a strange magician. He had been friends with the two brothers who had actively supported the old Warlord, but when Elgoran had died and Elgohar had left to serve upon the Midkemian world, Motecha had conspired to maintain an appearance of distance between himself and the two brothers. The attention of Shimone and Hochopepa intensified as Motecha opened. ‘Is there no end to Lady Mara’s ambition? She has called a Clan War, over a personal insult she delivered, as Lady of the Acoma.’ Hochopepa nodded as if in confirmation of a hunch. ‘So, Motecha has made alliances with the Anasati. Odd. He’s not an original thinker. I wonder who put him up to this?’ Shimone held up his hand. ‘Don’t distract with chatter. I want to hear this.’ Motecha waved a ringed hand, as if inviting rebuttal from his colleagues. But he was not as magnanimous in his equivocation as his gesture suggested, since he rushed on to cut off any interruption. ‘Obviously not. The Good Servant was not satisfied with flouting tradition by co-opting her former enemy’s forces –’ ‘Which we conceded was a brilliant move,’ interjected Hochopepa, again just loud enough to make the speaker stumble. Teloro and Shimone repressed amusement. The stout magician was a master at embarrassing colleagues that he deemed in need of having their pomposity punctured. As Motecha seemed ready to depart from his prepared remarks, Hochopepa added, ‘But please, I didn’t mean to interrupt; pray continue.’ Motecha was nonetheless thrown off stride. He brushed lamely past his hesitation saying, ‘She will crush the Anasati –’ Representing the more seasoned members of the Assembly, Fumita stood. At Hodiku’s nod of acknowledgment he said, ‘Forgive the interruption, Motecha, but an Anasati defeat is neither assured or even likely. Given the well-documented assessment of the forces available to both sides, it is a given Jiro must counteract with a Call to Clan. Alone, Anasati’s war hosts are no match for Lady Mara’s, and she has spoken boldly by raising Clan Hadama. This has already cost her politically. She will lose powerful allies – in fact, two will be forced by blood ties to take the field against her on Jiro’s behalf – and while the Acoma are awesome in wealth and power, the two clans are closely matched.’ Hochopepa grinned openly. Motecha’s thinly veiled attempt to stir the Assembly on behalf of the Anasati was now crushed. Rather than sit down, Fumita continued. ‘There is another issue here, that must be addressed.’ Motecha jerked his chin and conceded the floor in disgust. As he moved away, and no other Great One stood to claim the floor, Hodiku merely waved at Fumita to continue. ‘While matters of honor are deemed inviolate, we must consider: will this clash of clans so weaken the internal structure of the Empire that the stability is set at risk?’ A murmur stirred the Assembly, but no one thrust to the fore to debate the issue. Clan Ionani and Clan Hadama were large factions, yes, but neither commanded enough followers to upset civil order irretrievably. Hochopepa knew his ally Fumita stalled for time; the underlying concern behind this tactic was wider than the settlement of one House’s personal honor over insult. The worst was already halfway realised: that the conflict of the Anasati and the Acoma would create a polarisation of factions who opposed Ichindar. Disorganised dissenters already rallied behind Jiro’s cause, forming a traditionalist party that could throw serious opposition against the Empire’s new order. Though they were not yet incensed enough to contribute to the bloodshed, were there still a High Council left with power to act, there could be no doubt that if a vote were held at this minute, Lord Jiro would hold enough support to take the Warlordship. There were magicians who had regarded Ichindar’s rise to power as an impious expedient: that the balance should be returned to the time before the Enemy, with the Light of Heaven’s office restored to the old ways. Hochopepa led a small contingent that welcomed change; he paid scant heed to Fumita’s stalling, but instead watched to see where Motecha would gravitate. To his colleague he confided, ‘Ah, there’s the hand behind Jiro’s cause.’ With a slight nod of his head, he indicated the magician Motecha now spoke with, an athletic-looking man just out of youth, unremarkable save for the red hair that showed around the edges of his black cowl. He had thick brows, an expression that approached a scowl, and the carriage of a man who tended to fidget with excess nerves. ‘Tapek,’ Shimone identified. ‘He’s the one who burned up a building while practicing for his mastery. Came into his talents very early, but took a long time to learn restraint.’ Hochopepa’s mild face furrowed in concern. ‘He’s no friend of Jiro’s. I wonder what his stake in this is?’ Shimone gave the barest lift of shoulders, as close as he ever came to the enigmatic Tsurani shrug. ‘His kind gravitates toward trouble, as floating sticks will draw toward a whirlpool.’ On the floor, debate continued. Careful to keep his tone neutral lest someone point out his personal tie to Hokanu and Mara’s House, Fumita offered up his conclusion. ‘I believe that if Clans Ionani and Hadama destroy each other, we shall be faced with both internal and external perils.’ He held one finger aloft. ‘Can any doubt that whoever survives, that house will be so weakened that others will instantly fall upon it?’ He raised a second finger, adding, ‘And can any gainsay that enemies outside our border will take advantage of our internal dissension to strike?’ ‘My turn to contribute to the general excess of hot air,’ Hochopepa muttered, and promptly stood. At the cue, Fumita sat with such abruptness that nobody else could rise to his feet in time to prevent Hodiku’s indication that the stout magician had the floor. Hochopepa coughed to clear his throat. ‘My learned brother makes a strong brief,’ he said, warming up to a virtuoso speech of confusing pomposity. ‘But we must not blind ourselves with rhetoric.’ Shimone’s lips twitched at this half-lie. His fat companion paced heavily to and fro, meeting the eyes of all the magicians in the front rows to draw them to attention. ‘I would like to point out that such clashes before have not spelled the end of civilisation as we know it!’ He nodded for emphasis. ‘And we have no intelligence to indicate that those upon our borders are poised to strike. The Thuril are too busy with trade along our eastern frontier to seek struggle so long as we give them no cause. They can be a hard lot, but profit is bound to seem more attractive to them than bloodletting; at least that seems to be the case since the Alliance for War desisted in their attempt to conquer them.’ A murmur of disapproval disturbed the shadowy hall, for the attempt to annex the Thuril Highlands as a new province had ended in disgrace for the Empire, and it was considered bad form to recall the defeat. Hochopepa’s scruples did not restrain him from using this point to unbalance his opposition. He simply raised his sonorous voice enough to be heard above the noise. ‘The desert men of Tsubar have sworn binding treaty with the Xacatecas and Acoma on behalf of the Empire, and we have had no resumption of conflict in Dustari.’ That this was in part to Lady Mara’s credit was not lost on the Assembly. A smile spread across Hochopepa’s round face as the tumult died back to respectful stillness. ‘By any measure, the Empire is peaceful to the point of boredom.’ In a dramatic shift, his smile fled before a scowl, and he shook a finger at the gathering. ‘Need I remind my brothers that the Servant of the Empire is counted a member of the Imperial House by adoption? An odd convention, I know, but a tradition.’ He waved to single out Motecha, who had sought to discredit Mara. ‘Should we be so rash as to do anything on behalf of the Anasati, the Emperor could conceivably consider this an attack upon his family. And, more to the point, Elgohar and I witnessed the last Warlord’s execution. At his hanging …’ He paused for effect, and tapped his temple. ‘Let me see if I can recall our Light of Heaven’s exact words upon that occasion of a magician acting in conspiracy with council politics. Oh, yes, he said: “If another Black Robe is ever discovered involved in a plot against my house, the status of Great Ones outside the law will end. Even should I be forced to pit all the armies of the Empire against your magic might, even to the utter ruination of the Empire, I will not allow any to challenge the supremacy of the Emperor again. Is that understood?”’ Sweeping a dire glare over the assembly, Hochopepa said, ‘I assure you all, Ichindar was sincere. He is not the sort to threaten violence lightly. Our previous Emperors may have been content to sit by, dividing their time between holy devotions in the temples, and begetting heirs upon their assorted wives and mistresses’ – he let his voice rise again – ‘but Ichindar is not one! He is a ruler, not some divine puppet wearing the costume of religious office!’ Lowering his voice, forcing every magician present to strain with undivided attention to hear him, Hochopepa summed up. ‘We who attended the Good Servant’s son’s funeral know full well that Mara’s lapse was born of overwhelming grief. Now she must bear up to the consequences of her shame. From the moment she assaulted Jiro with her bare hands, this conflict was inevitable. As our charge is to preserve the Empire, I strongly doubt we can justify pursuing any activity that might find us all’ – shaking the hall with a thunderous bellow – ‘opposing the armies of the Empire in the field over a matter of personal insult!’ Quietly, reasonably, he resumed, ‘We should win, of course, but there would be very little Empire left to preserve after that.’ He ended with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘That was all I had to say.’ And he sat. Silence lasted only a moment before Tapek shot to his feet. Hodiku granted him a nod, and his robes swirled to his agitated stride as he stalked onto the floor. His face was pale as he surveyed the gathering silently gripped by reflection. ‘We have heard enough of Lady Mara. The wronged party, I must point out, is Lord Jiro. He did not initiate hostilities.’ Tapek raised his arms. ‘I bid you all to consider direct evidence instead of words for a change!’ He made a sweeping gesture that carved out a frame upon the air. An incantation left his lips, and in the space before him light gathered. A rainbow play of colors resolved into a sharply defined image of a room lined with books and scrolls. There, clad in a robe elegant in its simplicity, paced Lord Jiro in a rare state of agitation. Seated on a cushion in one corner, barely out of the path of his master’s temper, was Chumaka, his leathery face carefully expressionless. ‘How dare the Lady Mara threaten me!’ Jiro ranted in injured fury. ‘We had nothing to do with the death of her son! The implication that we are a house so honorless as to strike down a boy who shares Anasati blood is preposterous! The evidence planted on that tong assassin is a transparent effort to discredit us, and because of it, we are faced with Clan War!’ Chumaka steepled his fingers, adorned with rings of carved corcara that he had yet to remove since the funeral. ‘Clan Ionani will recognise these wrongs,’ he said in an effort to restore his master to calm. ‘We will not march unsupported to the field of war.’ ‘War!’ Jiro whirled, his eyes narrowed with disgust. ‘The Lady is nothing, if not a coward to initiate this call to arms! She thinks to best us without dirtying her hands, using sheer numbers to annihilate us. Well, we must fall back on our wits and teach her a lesson. Clan Ionani may support us; all to the good. But I will never forgive that such a pass has become necessary. If our house emerges from this heavy-handed attack, be sure that the Acoma will have created an enemy to be feared!’ Chumaka licked his teeth. ‘The political arena is stirred to new patterns. There are advantages to be gained, certainly.’ Jiro flung around to face his First Adviser. ‘First, damn the bitch, we have to escape with our hides from what will amount to wholesale slaughter.’ The scene cut off as Tapek clapped his hands and dispersed the spell that had drawn it. He flung back his flame-colored bangs, half sneering at the oldsters in the gathering who had stiffened in affront at his intrusion into the privacy of a noble citizen. ‘You go against tradition!’ cried a palsied voice from a rear bench. ‘What are we, meddling old women, to stoop to using arcane arts to spy? Do we peek into ladies’ dressing chambers!’ His opinion was shared by several of the greyer-headed members who shot to their feet and stalked out in protest. Tapek yelled back. ‘That’s a contradiction of ethics! What has Lady Mara made of tradition? She has dared to meddle, I say! Do we wait and pay the price of the instability she may create in the future? What morals will stop her? Has she not demonstrated her lack of self-control in this despicable attack against Lord Jiro?’ At this inflammatory remark, even Shimone looked disturbed. ‘She lost a child to a horrible death!’ he interrupted. ‘She is a woman and a human being. She is bound to have faults.’ Tapek stabbed both hands over his head. ‘An apt point, brother, but my concern is not for the Lady’s shortcomings. She has risen to a dizzying height by anyone’s measure. Her influence has grown too great, and her powers too broad. As Warchief of the Hadama and Lady of the strongest house in the Empire, she is preeminent among the Ruling Lords. And as Servant of the Empire, she holds dangerous sway over the masses. I submit the point that she is only human! And that no Ruling Lord or Lady should be allowed to wield so much influence throughout the Empire! I claim we should curb her excesses now, before the trouble grows too large to contain.’ Hodiku, as First Speaker, stroked his chin at the turn the discussion had taken. In attempt to soothe the uneasiness that stirred through the gathering, he appealed to Hochopepa. ‘I have a question for my learned friend. Hocho, what do you suggest we do?’ Leaning back, making every effort to appear casually unconcerned by resting an elbow upon the riser behind him, Hochopepa said, ‘Do? Why, I thought that should be obvious. We should do nothing. Let these contentious factions have their war. When their slights of honor are sated with bloodshed, it will be an easy enough matter to pick up the pieces.’ Voices rang out as another dozen magicians rose, seeking recognition. Shimone sighed audibly. ‘You’re not going to get your way on this one, Hocho.’ The stout magician set his chin in his palms, dimpling both cheeks. ‘Of course not,’ he whispered. ‘But I wasn’t about to let that hotheaded boy run off unconstrained.’ Outside the law, each Great One was free to act as he saw fit. Anyone could by his own judgment intervene against Mara should he deem his action in the best interest of the Empire. By taking the issue of noninterference to the floor of the Assembly, Hodiku had made it a matter for quorum consensus. Once an accord was made formal, no member would willingly defy the final decision. Since quick resolution was beyond hope, Hochopepa changed his goal toward forcing due process to instill tempered judgment. The stout magician adjusted his robes around his girth in resignation. ‘Now, let’s get to the meat of the matter by letting these hotheads rant themselves hoarse. When they run out of steam, we’ll show them the only reasonable choice, and call a vote, letting them think the idea was theirs in the first place. It’s safer to let Tapek and Motecha think they are leading the Assembly to consensus than to leave them free to initiate regrettable action on their own.’ Shimone turned a sour eye upon his portly companion. ‘Why is it that you always seek the solution to everything through inexhaustible sessions of talk?’ ‘Have you a better idea?’ Hochopepa shot back in sharp reproof. ‘No,’ Shimone snapped. Unwilling to bother himself with further speech, he turned his attention back to the floor, where the first of many speakers vied to continue the debate. The early sun heated the great command tent. The half-gloom inside smelled of the heavy oils used to keep the hide waterproof and of grease used to supple the straps of armor and scabbards. The scent of lamp oil was absent, as the Lady had declined the need for light. Dressed in ornamental armor and helm crowned with the plumes of the Hadama Clan Warchief, Mara sat on fine silk cushions. The flaps of the tent’s entrance were lashed back, and the morning outside edged her stiff profile in light. Behind her, his gauntleted hand upon her shoulder, Hokanu surveyed the army arrayed in ranks across the broad vale below. The mass of waiting warriors darkened the meadow across the entire vista, from the vantage point on the hill behind: spears and helms in their neat rows too numerous for counting. The only visible movement was caused by the wind through the officers’ plumes, which were many colors besides Acoma green. Yet the stillness was deceptive. At any second, every man at arms of Clan Hadama stood ready for attack, to answer their Warchief’s call to honor. Mara seemed an ornament carved of jade in her formal armor. Her face was the expressionless fa?ade expected of a Tsurani Warchief. Yet those advisers who attended her observed in her bearing a brittleness born of rigidness, as if her stiff manner were all that contained the seething emotions inside. They moved and spoke quietly in her presence, as if the chance-made gesture, or the wrongly inflected word might jar her control and the irrational rage she had unleashed upon Lord Jiro might hammer past her barriers and manifest itself again. In this setting, with the vast armies at her command spread in offensive readiness, she was unpredictable as the thunderhead whose lightnings have yet to be loosed. A formal declaration of war meant putting aside cunning and strategies, forgoing guile and reason, and simply charging across an open field at the foe named in ceremony in the Temple of Jastur. Across from the Hadama war force were raised the banners of Clan Ionani; like Lady Mara, Lord Jiro sat with the Ionani Warchief upon the crest of the opposite hill, proud as befitted their lineage, and of no mind to forgive a slight of honor from the Lady of the Acoma. Beyond the tight-ranked warriors of the Ionani, the command tent flew the ancient scarlet and yellow Anasati war banner on a standard set next to the black and green tent of Lord Tonmargu, Warchief of the clan. The placement of colors symbolised an age-old affirmation that the slight to the Anasati had been accepted by all the houses, to be resolved by bloodshed that would count no cost in lives. To die was Tsurani; to live in dishonor, cowardice deemed worse than death. Mara’s eyes registered the details, yet her hands did not shake. Her thoughts were walled off, isolated in a cold place that even Hokanu could not penetrate. She who had deplored war and killing now seemed eager to embrace raw violence. Bloodshed might not bring her son back, but the heat and horror of battle could maybe stop her thinking. She would know a surcease from pain and grief until Jiro of the Anasati was ground to a pulp in the dust. Her mouth hardened at the bent of her thoughts. Hokanu sensed her tautness. He did not try to dissuade her, knowing by instinct that no consolation existed that could move her. He stayed by her, quiet, tempering her decisions where he could. One day, she might waken and accept her tears for what they were. Until time might begin to heal her, he could only give unstinting support, knowing that until then, anything less might drive her to more desperate measures. With true Tsurani impassivity, Hokanu followed the distant panoply as several figures left the Hadama lines and approached the ranks of the Ionani. Lujan led the party, sunshine glancing off his armor, and lighting the tips of his officer’s plumes to emerald brilliance. At his shoulder walked his two Force Leaders, Irrilandi and Kenji, and behind, according to rank, the Force Commanders of the other houses of Clan Hadama. A scribe came last, to record the exchange as this delegation met its opposite in the center of the chosen site of battle, following tradition. A discussion would set the conditions of the coming war, the limits of the field, the hour of commencement, and the possibility, if any, that quarter could be offered or accepted. But Mara had ended hope of the last. That the houses of Clan Ionani had seen fit to become involved had moved her not a hairsbreadth. They could stand or fall with Jiro, and she would not be alone in enduring the atrocities inherent in the Game of the Council. When Keyoke, her Adviser for War, had broached the subject of quarter, her eyes had flashed hot anger as she pronounced, ‘No quarter.’ The lines were now drawn, the stakes set. None could dispute the word of Mara, as Warchief. Hokanu glanced around the command tent, as much to steady himself as to assess the mood of those present. Keyoke wore armor rather than the adviser’s garb his position entitled him to; Saric, who had fought in the Acoma ranks before rising to high office, had also donned armor. With battle about to rage, he felt naked wearing only thin silk on his back. Old Incomo yet wore his robes. More at home with his pen than his eating knife, he stood with his hands locked at his sash, his leathery features drawn. Though as seasoned in his way as a field general, he was unschooled in the arts of violence. Mara’s Call to Clan was no sane act, and since she had heretofore been the soul of gentleness and reason, her venomous embracing of Tsurani ritualised vengeance left him inwardly terrified. But his years of experience as adviser to the Minwanabi enabled him to stand firm in obedience. Every man and woman of the Acoma, and of all the houses of Clan Hadama, waited upon the gods’ will today. Trumpets sounded and the high, curving war horns blew. Drummers beat a tattoo as the delegations of Ionani and Hadama parted company, turned about, and marched back to their ranks. The drumbeat quickened, and the fanfare assumed a faster tempo. Lujan took his place in the center ranks; Irrilandi and Kenji marched to the right and left flanks; and the other officers assumed position at the heads of their house armies. Early sun glanced off the lacquered edges of shields and spears and lit the rippling movement of thousands of warriors drawing sword from sheath. The banners snapped in a gust, and streamers unfurled from the crossposts, red for the Death God Turakamu, whose blessing was asked for the slaughter about to begin. A priest of the Red God’s order stepped onto the narrow strip of earth between the armies and chanted a prayer. The swell of sound as voices of the warriors joined in seemed like the tremor that preceded cataclysm. Beside the priest stood another, a black-shrouded sister of Sibi, She Who Is Death. The presence of a priestess who worshipped Turakamu’s elder sister affirmed that many men were fated to die on this day. The priest completed his invocation and cast a handful of red feathers into the air. He bowed to the earth, then saluted the priestess of the Death Goddess. As the religious representatives withdrew, the warriors raised their voices to shouts. Cries and insults shattered the morning as men reviled their enemies across the field. Unforgivable words were exchanged, to seal their dedication to annihilating combat: to win or to die, as honor dictated; to stiffen the will lest any soldier be tempted to turn craven. The Tsurani code of honor was inflexible: a man would earn his life through victory, or his disgrace would extend past the Wheel of this Life, to cause misery in the next. Mara regarded the scene without passion. Her heart was hard. This day, other mothers would know what it was to weep over the bodies of slain sons. She barely noticed when Hokanu’s fingers settled on the shoulder plates of her armor, as his own heart began to pound in anticipation. The heir to the Shinzawai had the right to stand apart, for he had no blood ties to either Hadama or Ionani, but as husband to the Good Servant, he felt obliged to supervise this slaughter. Now, with the excitement of the warriors reaching a pitch to quicken the blood, a darker part of his nature looked forward to the call to charge. Ayaki had been loved as his own, and the boy’s loss quickened him to share his Lady’s rage. Logic might absolve House Anasati of the tong’s hiring, but the thirst of his aroused emotion remained unslaked. Whether or not Jiro was guilty, blood must atone for blood. A runner sent by Lujan arrived at the command tent. He bowed to earth, silent until the Lady waved. ‘Mistress, Warchief of Clan Hadama, Ionani Force Commanders have given agreement. Battle shall commence when the sun rises to a height of six diameters over the eastern horizon.’ Mara scanned the heavens, assessing. ‘That means the signal to charge will be sounded in less than a half-hour.’ She snapped a nod of approval. Yet the delay was longer than she desired: Ayaki had received no such reprieve. Minutes passed slowly. The soldiers continued to cry insults until their voices grew hoarse. The sun inched higher, and the air heated with the day. All in the command tent leashed in fraying nerves, until the touch of an alighting fly was enough to snap the gathering atmosphere of pent force. Hokanu’s impatience mounted. He was ready to draw blade and see the edge drink blood. At last the sun reached its designated position. No signal passed between the high officers in the command tent. Keyoke sucked in a quick breath in concert with Mara’s lifted hand. Lujan, on the field, raised his bared sword, and the trumpets pealed out their call to war. Hokanu had drawn his own sword without thought. The battle might finish without his ever facing an enemy, for his place was beside his Lady. No Ionani warriors would breach the honor guard who surrounded the command tent lest Clan Hadama be routed, yet he, and beside him Saric, were both ready. The notes of the fanfare seemed drawn out to eternity. In the distance, at the head of the army, Lujan waited with his blade poised high, glittering like a needle in sunlight. Across the field the Ionani commanding officer held a like pose. When the weapons of both men fell, a flood of screaming soldiers would charge across the narrow strip of meadow, and the hills would echo with the clash of swords and the cries of war. Hokanu snatched breath to mutter a hurried prayer for Lujan, for the brave Acoma Force Commander was almost certain to die. The press of soldiers on both sides made it unlikely any in the first five ranks would survive the initial strike. The two great armies would grind themselves against each other like the teeth on opposing jaws, and only the warriors in the rearmost ranks might see who emerged victorious. The moment of suspension ended. Men finished their last silent appeals to the gods for honor, victory, and life. Then Lujan’s sword quivered in the stroke of descent. As warriors shifted forward onto the balls of their feet and banners stirred in the hands of bearers who lifted the poles from the earth, thunder slammed out of the clear green sky. The concussion of air struck Mara and Hokanu full in the face. Cushions flew, and Hokanu staggered. He dropped to his knees, the arm not holding his weapon catching Mara into protective embrace. Incomo was flung back, his robes cupped like sails, as the command tent cracked and billowed in the gust. Keyoke stumbled backward into Saric, who caught him, and nearly went down as the crutch fetched him a blow across the legs. Both Acoma advisers clung to each other to keep their footing, while, inside the tent, tables overturned and charts depicting battle tactics flapped and tumbled into the tangle of privacy curtains that crashed across Mara’s sleeping mat. Through a maelstrom of dust devils, chaos extended across the field. Banners cracked and whipped, torn out of the bearers’ hands. A cry went up from the front ranks of both armies as warriors were cast to the ground. Their swords stabbed earth, not flesh. Thrown into disarray by the whirlwind, the warriors behind tripped over one another until not one was left able to press forward to engage the fight. In the breach between the lines appeared several figures in black. Their robes did not stir, but hung down in an uncanny calm. Then the unnatural winds abated, as if on command. As fury dwindled into awe, men on both sides blinked dust-caked lashes. They saw Great Ones come to intervene, and while their weapons remained in their hands, and the bloodlust to attack still drove them, none arose, nor did any make a move to overrun the magicians who stood equidistant between the armies. The downed warriors stayed prone, their faces pressed to the grass. No command from master or mistress could drive a man of them forward, for to touch a Great One was to invite utter ruin, if not commit offense against the gods. Mara regarded the Black Robes that had balked her vengeance with hostile eyes. The straps on her armor creaked as she arose to her feet. Her hands clamped into fists, and muscles jumped in her jaw. Softly, she said, ‘No.’ A strand of loose hair slipped from beneath her helm, and her Warchief’s plumes trembled like reeds before a breeze. A heartbeat later, another Great One materialised beside the open flap of her tent. His robe seemed cut from night itself, and though he was slender with youth, there was nothing young about his eyes. They held a light that seemed to blaze in contrast to his dark skin and hair. His voice proved surprisingly deep, ‘Lady Mara, hear our will. The Assembly forbids this war!’ Mara turned pale. Rage shook her, to be constrained from fulfilling her call to Clan War. Never had she imagined that the Assembly might intervene against her given will. She was as helpless to protest this development as her former enemy, Tasaio of the Minwanabi, had been, for to be forbidden the traditional means of vengeance for Ayaki’s murder was to forfeit Acoma honor. To withdraw without bloodshed from this confrontation would disgrace her far more than any shame the Anasati might fall heir to. Her son was the one left unavenged; Lord Jiro would be given the victory. He would gain esteem for his courage, having come to the field prepared to engage in battle to defend his honor, but it was not his son or his family ancestors whose shades would be diminished for being deprived of blood price for a murder. As the accuser who had not prosecuted her claims by strength of arms, the Lady of the Acoma would forfeit much of the veneration due her rank. Mara found her voice. ‘You force me to dishonor, Great One.’ The magician dismissed her remark with haughty calm. ‘Your honor, or lack of it, is not my affair, Good Servant. The Assembly acts as it will, in all cases, for the Good of the Empire. The carnage of clan conflict between Hadama and Ionani would weaken the Nations and leave this land vulnerable to attack from outside our borders. Therefore, you are told: no force of the Acoma or of the Anasati or their clan, or allies may take the field to oppose the other for this or any other matter. You are forbidden to make war against Lord Jiro.’ Mara held herself silent by force of will. Once, she had stood witness when the barbarian Black Robe, Milamber, had torn open the skies above the Imperial Arena. The powers unleashed on that day had killed, and shaken the earth, and caused fire to rain down from the clouds. She was not so far gone in grief to lose reason and forget: the magicians were the supreme force within the Empire. The young, nameless magician looked on in arrogant silence as Mara swallowed hard. Her cheeks flushed red, and Hokanu, at her shoulder, could feel her trembling suppressed rage. Yet she was Tsurani. The Great Ones were to be obeyed. She gave a stiff nod. ‘Your will, Great One.’ Her bow was deep, if resentful. She half turned toward her advisers. ‘Orders: withdraw.’ In the face of this command she had no choice. Though Ruling Lady of the greatest house in the Empire, though Servant of the Empire, even she could but bow to the inevitable and ensure that no lapse of dignity could compound this enforced dishonor. Hokanu relayed his Lady’s orders. Saric shook off a stunned stillness and hastened to rouse the signal runners outside the tent from their abject prostration. Keyoke readied the signal flags, and, as if grateful to be excused from the presence of the one dark-robed form in the command tent, messengers snatched up green and white flags and hurried off to the knoll to wave the command for withdrawal. On the field, amid the kneeling mass of his warriors, Lujan saw the signal. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, and around him the other Force Commanders of Clan Hadama called orders to retreat. Like a wave held in check, the men gathered up their swords and spears, slowly stood, and pulled back into family groups. Movement surged through their ranks as they formed up, and began the march back up the hillsides toward their respective masters’ encampments. The armies poised to clash rolled back from each other, leaving the meadow trampled in the sunlight. The magicians between the hosts oversaw the retreat, then, their office completed, disappeared one by one, relocating upon the hill near the Ionani command tent. Intent on her bitterness, Mara barely noticed the magician still before her, nor Hokanu at her side, dispensing instructions to dismiss Clan Hadama’s forces homeward to their respective estate garrisons. Her eyes might view an ending of war, but their hardness did not relent. Honor must be satisfied. To fall upon her family sword was no just reparation for Ayaki’s life. The public disgrace remained, not to be forgotten. Jiro would use such shame to ally enemies against her house. Shaken to reassume her responsibilities, she could only atone for her error. No choice remained now, but to use intrigue to resolve the death and the insult between herself and the Anasati. The Game of the Council must now serve, with plots and murder done in secret, behind a public front of Tsurani propriety. A disturbance arose outside the command tent, a flurry of raised voices, and Keyoke’s rising clearest in astonishment. ‘Two companies from the extreme left flank are moving!’ Mara hurried into the open, fear dislodging her thoughts of hatred. She stared out over the valley in horrified disbelief to see the leftmost element of the Hadama forces countermand orders and surge forward. The magician who had followed at her elbow hissed affront, and more of his fellows appeared out of empty air. Mara fought panic at the new arrivals. If she did not act, the Great Ones would take issue at her side’s disregard of orders. In another moment her house, her Clan, and every loyal servant of the Acoma might lie dead of the magicians’ wrath. ‘Who commands the left?’ she cried in shrill desperation. Irrilandi, now arrived on the hilltop, called answer. ‘That’s a reserve company, mistress. It is under charge of the Lord of the Petcha.’ Mara bit her lip in furious thought: Petcha was a lord but lately come to his inheritance. Barely more than a boy, he commanded out of deference to his rank, not through skills or experience. Tsurani tradition gave him the right to a place at the forefront of the ranks. Lujan had compensated as best he might, and set the boy over an auxiliary unit, which would be called upon only when the battle’s outcome was decided. But now either his youth or his hot blood invited total disaster. Keyoke considered the situation in the valley with the eyes of a master tactician. ‘The impetuous fool! He seeks to strike while confusion occupies the Anasati side of the line! Didn’t he see the Great Ones? How could he ignore their arrival?’ ‘He’s bereft of his senses.’ Hokanu gestured to the runners, who had reached even the farthest sections of the lines. ‘Or else he can’t read the command flags.’ Saric raced off to dispatch more runners, while on the field, several older commanding officers broke away from the press of retreating warriors and hurried to converge on Lord Petcha’s moving banners. On the hill, Lady Mara looked on in horror as two full companies of men in Lord Petcha’s orange-and-blue-plumed armor moved forward to attack the Anasati right flank. The soldiers in red and yellow on the far hillside swirled in an about-face, preparing to meet the charge. Their commander’s shouts floated on the wind as he exhorted each warrior to keep his head. They were seasoned troops, or else their fear lent them prudence. They held in compliance with the Great Ones’ edict, and did not rush forward to answer Lord Petcha’s provocation. Keyoke’s sinewy hands whitened on his crutch. ‘He’s wise, that Anasati Strike Leader. He will not violate the order to withdraw, and should our men under Petcha keep coming, they will be attacking uphill. He has time to wait, and perhaps maintain the truce.’ The words were spoken for the benefit of the Black Robes, who had banded together in a disturbed knot. Frowning under ink-dark hoods, they watched the Petcha forces race headlong up the rise on the Ionani side of the vale. One spoke, and two vanished with a whipping snap of air. Mara’s servants threw themselves prone in abject fear, and more than one veteran turned white. Lujan looked sick and Keyoke like chiseled rock. On the field, the two Black Robes reappeared before the charging forces. Tiny as toys, yet menacing for that smallness, they threw up their hands. Green light sparked from their fingertips, and a searing flash erupted in the path of the running warriors. The eyesight of every watcher was dazzled. Left blind by the afterimage, Mara was forced to blink tears from her stinging eyes. Moments passed before she recovered clear vision. She forced herself to face front, and gasped. At first glance nothing appeared wrong. Lord Petcha’s soldiers no longer ran; they still stood upright, their orange armor bright in the sunlight and their plumes twisting in the breeze. More careful study showed that their quietness masked a tableau of horror. The hands that still clutched weapons writhed and twitched, the flesh slowly blistering. Faces contorted in nightmarish, silent agony. Their skin raised up in pustules, then darkened, blackened, and crisped. Smoke curled on the wind, stinking of scorched carrion. Flesh cracked and oozed blood that boiled away into steam. Mara’s belly clenched with nausea. She sagged back, caught by Hokanu, who shared her tortured horror. Even the battle-hardened Keyoke looked ill to his very core. There came no screams from the field. The victims stood arrested as puppets as their eyes burst and empty sockets seeped. Their tongues became thick purple obscenities protruding from mouths that could not emit even a single strangled cry. Hair smoked and fingernails melted, yet the soldiers lived, their jerks and quivers clearly visible to the stunned observers upon the distant hilltops. Saric choked back a gasp. ‘Gods, gods, they are surely punished enough.’ The magician first appointed to Mara’s tent turned toward the adviser. ‘They are only punished enough when we decide to allow them their crossing to Turakamu.’ ‘As you will, Great One!’ Saric immediately prostrated himself, his face pressed to the dirt like a slave’s. ‘Your forgiveness, Great One. I regret my outburst, and apologise for speaking out of turn.’ The magician deigned no reply, but stood in cold silence as the Petcha warriors continued to suffer on the field. Burned flesh peeled from their bodies, to fall smoking to the ground. The men at last began to topple, first one, then another, until all two hundred warriors lay tumbled, blackened skeletons, on untouched grass, still clad in gleaming armor. The orange-and-blue Petcha banner lay before them, the tassels fluttering in wind that carried barely a signature of smoke. The young magician at length stood apart from his fellows and addressed the Lady Mara. ‘Our rule is absolute, Good Servant. Let your people remember. Any who defy us invite instant oblivion. Is that understood?’ Mara fought back her sickness, croaked a whisper. ‘Your will, Great One.’ Another magician separated himself from the group. ‘I am not yet satisfied.’ He regarded Mara’s officers, all on their feet except for Saric. They might appear uncowed, as Tsurani propriety demanded, yet not one did not tremble with terror. This brave front seemed to increase the Black Robe’s displeasure. ‘Who defied us?’ he inquired of his colleagues, ignoring Mara. ‘Young Lord Petcha,’ came the reply, cold, and to the point. A third voice arose from the Black Robes, this one more temperate. ‘He acted upon his own, without his Warchief’s permission or approval.’ The second magician, a sharp-eyed man with a shock of red hair that escaped the edges of his hood, shifted his regard to Mara. ‘His dishonor does not end here.’ The magician who seemed to mediate called out again. ‘Tapek, I said Lady Mara had nothing to do with the defiance.’ Tapek returned a shrug, as if irritated by a fly. ‘As Lord Petcha’s Warchief, she is responsible for the conduct of all forces under her command.’ Mara lifted her chin. Her mind stilled with a horror of recognition: these Black Robes might order her dead, with no more concern than they had showed for Tasaio of the Minwanabi, whose suicide had resulted from their bidding. Her officers looked arrested with terror. Keyoke showed nothing beyond a hardness around his eyes that no one living had ever seen. Hokanu made an involuntary jerk forward, but was stopped by Lujan’s rock-hard grip upon his arm. The onlookers, to a man, held their breath. Should the Black Robes order her destruction, no sword, no plea, no power of love might prevent them. The loyalty of thousands of servants and soldiers who would gladly give their lives in her place would avail her nothing. While the red-haired Tapek studied the Lady with a snake’s heartless regard, the young magician said, ‘Is Lord Petcha still alive?’ Lujan reacted instantly, dispatching a runner to the field. Minutes passed. Tapek shifted in impatience, while out at the scene of the carnage the messenger conferred. A flag was brought to signal. It dipped and waved, in code, while Lujan interpreted. ‘All who attacked are dead.’ He dared raise his eyes to the Great Ones as he concluded, ‘Lord Petcha was leading his men. His body is ashes and bones, with the rest.’ The first magician nodded curtly. ‘The obliteration of the offender is ample punishment.’ The third magician from the group affirmed, ‘So be it.’ Mara felt faint with relief, until Tapek stepped sharply toward her. Deep in the shadow under his hood, his heavy eyebrows drew up in displeasure. His eyes were pale, cold as the depths of the sea, and menace edged his tone as he said, ‘Mara of the Acoma, the House of Petcha is no more. You shall see that all of that line are dead before nightfall. The estate house and barracks will be burned, and the fields fired. When the crops are destroyed, Acoma servants shall salt the earth, that nothing shall grow on the land. All soldiers sworn to the Petcha natami are to be hung. You will leave their remains to rot in the wind, and never offer them haven as you have other warriors of conquered houses. All Petcha free servants are now slaves, given over to the service of the Emperor. All Petcha holdings now belong to the temples. The Petcha natami is to be broken by hammers and the fragments buried, never to know the sun’s warmth, never more to secure Petcha spirits to the Wheel of Life. From this night unto eternity, that house no longer exists. Let the ending signify this: no one may defy the will of the Assembly. No one.’ Mara forced her knees not to give way. She used every shred of her strength to draw breath and find her voice. ‘Your will, Great One.’ She bowed. Her armor dragged at her shoulders, and the plumes of her helm seemed to weigh down her neck, yet she lowered herself until her knees and forehead touched soil, and the feathers of a Hadama Warchief became sullied with dust. The young magician inclined his head in perfunctory acknowledgment of her obeisance, then withdrew a round metal device from his robe. He depressed a switch with his thumb. A whining sound cut the stillness. With an audible pop and an inrushing of air, the Black Robe vanished. The magician named Tapek lingered, studying the woman who was folded on the ground at his feet. His lips twitched as if he enjoyed her groveling. ‘See that the object of this lesson is well learned by all others in your Clan, Good Servant. Any who defy the Assembly will face the same fate as the Petcha.’ He withdrew another of the round devices and a moment later, disappeared. The other Black Robes vanished after him, leaving the hilltop bare but for the circle of Mara’s shocked officers. Below, shouts rang across the vale as officers called orders to confused soldiers. Warriors crowded back up the hillsides, some in a hurry to put space between themselves and the carnage wrought by magic, others reluctant to turn their backs upon the enemy, who marched to the same edict given to Lady Mara. Saric gathered himself to his feet, while her Force Commander helped his Lady, in the encumbrance of her armor, to do the same. Hoarsely, she said to Lujan, ‘Hurry and dispatch more messengers. We must make haste to disperse the clan, lest further mishap provoke an incident.’ Swallowing hard, and still feeling sickened, Mara gestured to Saric. ‘And, Gods grant us mercy, order this terrible thing done: obliterate the Petcha.’ Saric nodded, unable to speak. He had a gift for reading character, and the memory of Tapek’s intensity gave him chills. Mara had been dealt the worst punishment imaginable, the utter destruction of a loyal clan family for no worse offense than youthful impetuosity. All for his mistress’s Call to Clan, the young Lord had died in lingering agony; before nightfall his young wife and baby sons would be dead, as would cousins and relations who bore his name. That Mara must herself be the instrument of that unjust decree cut through her grief for Ayaki. For the first time since the great black gelding had toppled upon the body of her son, her eyes showed the spark of awakened feeling for others beyond herself. Saric saw this as he trudged off to complete the horrifying task set upon the Acoma by the Great Ones. Hokanu observed as he steadied his Lady’s steps on her return to the command tent. The fires of the Assembly’s magic had cauterised the wounds to her spirit. In place of the obsession for revenge against Jiro, a fierce anger now commanded her mind. Mara had recovered herself. Hokanu knew bittersweet relief at the change. He regretted the Petcha’s loss; but the woman he loved was once again the most dangerous player of the Game of the Council the Empire had ever known. With a gesture, she dismissed the servants who rushed to neaten the disorder left in the tent. When the last of them had retreated a discreet distance away, she called Irrilandi to unlace the door flaps and restore her a measure of privacy. Keyoke entered as the last flap slapped down. He performed servant’s task lighting the lanterns, while Mara paced. Vibrant, even jagged with nerves, she regarded those of her house who were present, arrayed in semicircle before her. Her voice seemed flat as she said, ‘They dare …’ Keyoke stiffened. He glanced askance at Hokanu, who stood as mute as the others. Mara reached the fallen tangle of her privacy curtains, then spun around. ‘Well, they will learn.’ Irrilandi, who knew her moods less well than the others, gave her a fist-over-heart salute. ‘Lady, surely you do not speak in reference to the magicians?’ Mara seemed tiny, in the lantern light that held the shadows in the cavernous tent at bay. A moment passed, filled by the muffled shouts of the officers still mustering troops outside. Bowstring-taut, Mara qualified. ‘We must do what has never been done since the Empire came into existence, my loyal friends. We must discover a way to evade the will of the Great Ones.’ Irrilandi gasped. Even Keyoke, who had faced death through a lifetime of campaigns, seemed shaken to the core. But Mara continued grimly: ‘We have no choice. I have shamed the Acoma name before Jiro of the Anasati. We are forbidden expiation by means of war; I will not fall upon my sword. This is an impasse for which tradition has no answer. The Lord of the Anasati must die by my design, and I will not stoop to hiring assassins. Jiro has already used my disgrace to whip up enemies. He has turned the dissatisfied Lords in the Nations into a cohesive party of traditionalists, and Ichindar’s reign is imperiled along with the continuance of the Acoma name. My only heir is dead, so my ritual suicide offers us no alternative. If all that I have lived to achieve is to be salvaged, we must spend years in the planning. Jiro must die by my hand, if not in war, then in peace, despite the will of the Assembly of Magicians.’ • Chapter Four • Adversity (#ulink_cab0061f-b183-5b5b-9cd6-edacad0457c0) Someone moved. Atop a stack of baled cloth, partially hidden by the cant of a crooked bale, Arakasi heard what might be the grate of a footstep on the gritty boards of the floor. He froze, uneasy at the discovery he was not alone in the murk of the warehouse. Silently he controlled his breathing; he forced his body to relax, to stave off any chance of a muscle cramp brought on by his awkward position. From a distance, his clothing would blend with the wares, making him seem like a rucked bit of fabric fallen loose from its ties. Up close, the deception would not bear inspection. His coarse-woven robe could never be mistaken for fine linens. Mindful that he might have trapped himself by taking refuge in this building to shake a suspected tail, he shut his eyes to enhance his other senses. The air was musty from spilled grain and leakage from barrels of exotic spices. The scented resins that waterproofed the roof shingles mingled with those of moldered leather from the door hinges. This particular warehouse lay near enough to the dockside that its floors submerged when the river crested in spring and overran the levee. Minutes passed. Noise from the dock quarter came muffled through the walls: a sailor’s raucous argument with a woman of the Reed Life, a barking cur, and the incessant rumble of wheels as needra drew the heavy drays of wares away from the riverside landings. The Acoma Spy Master strained to sort the distant hubbub; one by one, he tagged the sounds, while the day outside waned. A shouting band of street urchins raced down the street, and the bustle of commerce quieted. Nothing untoward met his ears beyond the calls of the lamplighters who tended the street at the end of the alley. Long past the point where another man might conclude he had imagined the earlier disturbance – that what seemed a footstep was surely the result of stress and imagination – Arakasi held rigidly still. The flesh still prickled warning at the base of his neck. He was not one to take chances. Patience was all, when it came to any contest of subterfuge. Restraint rewarded him, finally, when a faint scrape suggested the brush of a robe against wood, or the catch of a sleeve against a support beam. Doubt fled before ugly certainty: someone else was inside the warehouse. Arakasi prayed silently to Chochocan, the Good God, to let him live through this encounter. Whoever had entered this dark building had not done so for innocent reasons. This intruder was unlikely to be a servant who had stolen off for an illicit nap in the afternoon heat, then overslept through supper into night. Arakasi mistrusted coincidence, always; to presume wrongly could bring his death. Given the hour, and the extreme stealth exhibited by his stalker, he had to conclude he was hunted. Sweating in the still air, he reviewed each step that had brought him to this position. He had paid an afternoon call upon a fabric broker in the city of Ontoset, his purpose to contact a factor of a minor house who was one of his many active agents. Arakasi made a habit of irregular personal visits to ensure that such men remained loyal to their Acoma mistress, and to guard against enemy infiltrations. The intelligence network he had built upon since his days as a servant of the Tuscai had grown vast under Acoma patronage. Complacence on his part invited any of a thousand possible mishaps, the slightest of which could spell disaster for his Lady’s welfare. His visit today had not been carelessly made; his guise as an independent trader from Yankora had been backed up by paper work and references. The public announcement of the Assembly’s intervention between the Acoma and the Anasati had reached this southern city days later; news tended to travel slowly across provinces as the rivers fell and deepwater trade barges were replaced by landborne caravans. Aware that Lady Mara would require his updated reports by the fastest possible means to guard against possible countermoves by the Anasati or other foes made bold by the Assembly’s constraints, Arakasi had shortened his stay to a hurried exchange of messages. On leaving the premises, he had suspected he was being followed. Whoever had tailed him had been good. Three times he had tried to shed his pursuit in the teeming crush of the poor quarter; only a caution that approached the obsessive had shown him a half-glimpsed face, a tar-stained hand, and twice, a colored edge of sash that should not have been repeated in the random shuffle of late-day traffic. As well as the Spy Master could determine, there were four of them, a superbly trained team who were sure to be agents from another network. No mere sailors or servants in commoners’ clothing could work with such close coordination. Arakasi inwardly cursed. He had blundered into just the sort of trap he had set for informants himself. His backup plan could not be faulted. He had quickly crossed the busy central market, where purchase of a new robe and sudden movement through an inn packed with roisterers had seen the trader from Yankora vanish and a house messenger emerge. His skill in altering his carriage, his movements, the very set of his bones as he walked had confused many an opponent over the years. His back trail had seemed unencumbered as he jogged back to the factor’s quarters and let himself in through a hidden door. There he had changed into the brown of a common laborer, and taken refuge in the warehouse behind the trade shop. Crawling atop the cloth bales, his intent had been to sleep until morning. Now he cursed himself for a fool. When those following had lost sight of him, they must have dispatched one of their number to backtrack to this warehouse, on the off-chance he might return. It was a move that a less cocky man might have anticipated, and only the gods’ luck had seen the Acoma Spy Master inside and hidden before the enemy agent slipped in to wait and observe. Sweat trickled down Arakasi’s collar. The opponent he faced was dangerous; his entrance had almost gone undetected. Instinct more than sure knowledge had roused Arakasi to caution. The gloom was too deep to reveal his adversary’s location. Imperceptibly slowly, the Acoma Spy Master inched his hand down to grasp the small dagger in his belt. Ever clumsy with handling a sword, he had a rare touch for knives. If he had clear view of a target, this nerve-rasping wait might be ended. Yet if a wish was his for the granting, he would not ask the Gods of Tricks and Fortune for weapons, but to be far from here, on his way back to Mara. Arakasi had no delusions of being a warrior. He had killed before, but his preferred defense relied more on wits, surprise tactics giving him the first strike. This was the first time he had been truly cornered. A scuffle sounded at the far end of the warehouse. Arakasi stopped breathing as a loose board creaked, pulled aside to allow a second man to slip inside. The Spy Master expelled his pent air carefully. The hope of a stealthy kill was lost to him. Now he had two enemies to consider. Light flared as a hand-carried lantern was unshuttered. Arakasi squinted to preserve his night vision, his situation turned from tense to critical. While he was probably concealed from the first agent, the new arrival at the back of the warehouse could not help but discover him as he walked past holding a light. Out of alternatives, Arakasi probed for the gap that should exist between the stack of bales where he rested and the wall. Cloth needed space for air circulation, lest mildew cause spoilage in the dark. This merchant was not overly generous in his habits; the crack that met the Spy Master’s touch was very narrow. Prickling in awareness of his peril, he slid in one arm to the shoulder and wiggled until the bale shifted. The risk could not be avoided, that the stack might topple; if he did not act, he was going to be discovered anyway. Forcing himself flat against the wall, and nudging on the bale, Arakasi wedged himself into the widening gap. Splinters from the unvarnished boards gouged into his bare knees. He dared not pause, even to mouth a silent curse, for the light at ground level was moving. Footfalls advanced on his position, and shadows swung in arcs across the rafters. He was only halfway hidden, but his position was high enough that the angle of illumination swept above him; had he waited another heartbeat, his movement would have been seen. His margin for error was nonexistent. Only the steps of his adversary covered the slither of his last furtive shove as he nestled downward into the cranny. A mutter arose from beyond the bale. ‘Look at that!’ As if summarising an inspection, the man rambled on, ‘Tossing good cloth as if it were straw bales, and unworthy of careful packing … Someone should be beaten for this –’ The musing was interrupted by the original stalker’s whisper. ‘Over here.’ Arakasi dared not raise himself to risk a glance. The lantern crept on in the hand of its unseen bearer. ‘Any sign of him?’ ‘None.’ The first stalker sounded irritable. ‘Thought I heard something a bit ago, but it was probably vermin. We’re surrounded by grain warehouses here.’ Reassured enough to be bored, the newcomer lifted his lantern. ‘Well, he’s around somewhere. The factor’s slave insisted he’d come back and gone into hiding. The others are watching the residence. They’d better find him before morning. I don’t want to be the one to tell our master he’s escaped.’ ‘You get wind of the gossip? That this fellow’s been seen before, in different guise? He’s got to be a courier, at least, or even a supervisor.’ Cheerfully the stalker added, ‘He’s not from this province, either.’ ‘You talk too much,’ snapped the lantern bearer. ‘And you remember things you should forget. If you want to keep breathing, you’d best keep that sort of news to yourself. You know what they say: “Men have throats and daggers have sharp edges.”’ The advice was received with a sigh. ‘How long must we keep watch?’ ‘Unless we’re told to leave, we’ll stay until just before daybreak. Won’t do to be caught here, and maybe killed by guards as common thieves.’ An unintelligible grumble ended the conversation. Arakasi resigned himself to a long, uncomfortable wait. His body would be cramped by morning, and the splinters an additional aggravation, but the consequences if he should be captured did not bear examination. The loose tongues of his trackers had confirmed his worst surmise: he had been traced by another spy net. Whoever commanded the pair who hunted him, whoever they reported to, the master at the top of their network worked for someone canny, someone who had constructed a spy system that had escaped notice until now. Arakasi weighed this fact and knew fear. Chance and intuition had spared him when intricate advance precautions had failed; in discomfort, in warm darkness, he agonised over his assessment. The team who sought to capture him were skilled, but not so polished that they refrained from indulging in idle talk. It followed that they had been set to catch what their master presumed must be a low-ranking link in the operation he sought to crack. Arakasi suppressed a chill. It was a mark of the deep distrust that drove him, that he preferred when he could to accomplish occasional small errands in person. His unseen enemy must have the chance to know who he was, how highly he was placed, or the name of the mistress he reported to. Possibly he faced the most dangerous opponent he had ever encountered. Somewhere Lady Mara had an enemy, whose subtleties posed a threat greater than anything she had confronted in her life. If Arakasi did not escape alive from Ontoset, if he could not get a message home, his mistress might be taken unwarned by the next strike. Reminded by the ache in his chest that his breathing had turned swift and shallow, the Spy Master forced control. His security had been compromised, when he had no inkling of impending trouble. The breach spoke of intricate planning. The factor’s second role must have been discovered; precisely how could not be surmised, but a watch had been set over the traffic at Ontoset’s docks closely enough to differentiate between regular traders and those who were strangers. That the team that lay in had been clever enough to see through two of Arakasi’s disguises, having marked him as a courier or supervisor, boded ill. Arakasi counted the cost. He would have to replace the factor. A certain slave was going to die of what must seem natural causes, and the trade shop must be shut down, a regrettable necessity, for while it doubled as part of his network, it was one of the few profitable Acoma undertakings used by the spy ring. It paid for itself and provided extra funds for other agents. Grey light filtered through a crack in the wall. Dawn was nigh, but the men showed no sign of stirring. They had not fallen asleep, but were waiting against the chance the man they sought might show himself at the last hour. The minutes dragged. Daybreak brightened outside. Carts and wagons rumbled by, the costermongers bringing produce to be loaded at the riverside before the worst of the heat. The chant of a team of barge oarsmen lifted in tuneless unison, cut by the scolding of a wife berating a drunken husband. Then a shout raised over the waking noise of the city, close at hand, and urgent. The words were indistinct to Arakasi, wedged behind muffling bales of linen, but the other two men in the warehouse scrambled immediately into motion. Their footfalls pattered the length of the building, and the board creaked aside. Most likely they made good their escape; were they clever, they might have used the sound of their leaving as opening gambit for a ruse. A partner could yet be lingering to see if their quarry flushed in response. Arakasi held still, though his legs were kinked into knots of spasming muscle. He delayed a minute, two, his ears straining for signs of danger. Voices sounded outside the doubled door, and the rattle of the puzzle lock that held the warehouse secure warned of an imminent entry. Arakasi twisted to free himself, and found his shoulders wedged fast. His arms were pressed flat to his sides; his legs had slipped too low to gain purchase. He was trapped. He knew galvanic desperation. Were he caught here, and arrested as a thief, the spy who had traced him would hear. A corrupt city official would then receive a gift, and he would find himself delivered to his enemy. His chance to make his way back to Mara would be lost. Arakasi jammed his elbows against the bale, to no avail. The gap that pinned him widened, only causing him to fall deeper into the cleft. The board walls added the sting of new splinters to his wrists and forearms. Silently swearing, he pushed and slipped inexorably beyond hope of unobtrusive extrication. The warehouse doors crashed open. The Spy Master could do nothing now but pray for a chance to innovate as an overseer bellowed, ‘Take all those, against that wall.’ Sunlight and air heavy with the scent of river mud spilled into the warehouse; a needra lowed, and harness creaked. Arakasi deduced that wagons waited outside to be loaded. He weighed his choices. To call attention to himself now was to chance that no one from the enemy net waited outside, a risk he dared not take. He could be followed again, and luck would not spare him a second time. Then all debate became moot as a work team hurried into the warehouse, and the bale that jammed his body suddenly moved. ‘Hey,’ someone called. ‘Careful of that loose bit up there.’ ‘Loose bit!’ snapped the overseer. ‘Which of you dogs broke a tie when the bales were stacked and didn’t report the lapse?’ A muddle of disclaiming replies masked Arakasi’s movement as he flexed aching muscles in preparation for his inevitable discovery. Nothing happened. The workers became involved with making excuses to their overseer. Arakasi seized the moment to lever himself upward. His thrust jostled the cloth that had been shifted, and it overbalanced and tumbled downward to land with a resounding thump against the floor. The overseer yelled his displeasure. ‘Oaf! They’re heavier than they look! Get help before you go trying to push them about from above.’ So, Arakasi concluded: the factor must have realised his dilemma and arranged a possible cover. No space remained for mistakes if the impromptu salvage was to work. Hastily he threw himself prostrate. With his face pressed to the pile of cloth where he perched, he mumbled abject apologies. ‘Well, hurry along!’ the overseer cried. ‘Your clumsiness is no excuse to lie about in idleness. Get the wagons loaded!’ Arakasi nodded, pushed himself off the stack, and fought against the unsteadiness of stiff muscles to keep his feet. The shock was too much, after hours of forced inactivity. He bent before he collapsed, leaning against the fallen bale and stretching as if examining himself for injuries. A worker eyed him sourly as he straightened. ‘You all right?’ Arakasi nodded vigorously enough to shake loose hair over his features. ‘Then lend a hand,’ the worker said. ‘We’re almost done at this end.’ Arakasi did as he was bidden and caught the end of the fallen bale. In tandem with the worker, he joined the team doing the loading. Head down, hands busy, he used every trick he knew to alter his appearance. Sweat dripped down his jaw. He smeared the trickle with his hands, rubbing in dust and dirt to darken the thrust of his cheekbones. He ran his fingers through the one lock of hair kept dyed since a scar had turned it white, then smudged artfully to extend shadow and lend the illusion of shortening his chin. He lowered his brows in a scowl, and thrust his bottom teeth against his upper lip. To an onlooker he should seem nothing more than a worker of little intelligence; as he hefted his end of the cloth he stared directly ahead, doing nothing that might identify him as a fugitive. Each pass from warehouse to wagon scraped his nerves raw. By the time the wagons were loaded, he had singled out a loiterer in the shadows of the shop front across the street. The man seemed vacant-eyed, a beggar left witless by addiction to tateesha; except that his eyes were too focused. Arakasi repressed a shiver. The enemy was after him, still. The wagons were prepared to roll, the workers climbing on board. Mara’s Spy Master hoisted himself up onto the load as if expected to, and elbowed the man next to him in the ribs. ‘Did the little cousin get that robe she wanted?’ he asked loudly. ‘The one with the flower patterns on the hem?’ Whips cracked, and a drover shouted. The needra leaned into their traces, and the laden wagons groaned into movement. The worker Arakasi had addressed stared back in frank surprise. ‘What?’ As if the big man had said something funny, Arakasi laughed loudly. ‘You know. Lubal’s little girl. The one who brings lunches down to Simeto’s gang at the docks.’ The worker grunted. ‘Simeto I’ve heard of, but not Lubal.’ Arakasi slapped his forehead in embarrassment. ‘You’re not his friend Jido?’ The other man hawked dust from his throat and spat. ‘Never heard of him.’ The wagons had reached the corner of the alley and swung to negotiate the turn. Urchins blocking the way raised curses from the lead drover, and the overseer waved a threatening fist. The children returned obscene gestures, then scattered like a startled flock of birds. Two mangy hounds galloped after them. Arakasi dared a glance back at the factor’s residence. The tateesha halfwit still drooled and watched the warehouse doors, which were being closed and locked by a servant. The ruse, perhaps had worked. Arakasi mumbled words of apology to the man he had bothered, and rested his head on crossed elbows. While the wagon rolled, jostling over the uneven paving and splashing through the refuse that overflowed the gutters by the dockside, he smothered a sigh of relief. He was not clear of danger, nor would he be safe until he was miles removed from Ontoset. His thoughts turned to the future: whoever had arranged the trap at the factor’s would presume that his net was discovered. He would further surmise that his escaped quarry must guess that another organisation was at work. Logic insisted that this unseen enemy would react with countermeasures to foil just the sort of search that Arakasi must now launch. Ring upon ring of confusion would befuddle the trail, while the Ontoset branch of the Acoma network was left a total loss. Its lines of communication must be dissolved without trace. Two more levels of operation would have to be engaged, and swiftly: one to check for leaks in the branches in other provinces, and another to sift through a cold trail to try and ferret out this new enemy. The difficulties were nearly insurmountable. Arakasi had a touch for difficult puzzles, true enough. But this one was potentially deadly, like a sword edge buried in sand that any man’s foot might dislodge. He brooded until the wagons pulled up at the docks. Along with the other workers, he jumped down onto the wharf and set hands to a hoist. One after another, the cloth bales were dragged from the wagon beds and loaded into waiting nets. Arakasi shoved on the pole with the rest when the hoist was full, lifting the cargo high and swinging it onto the deck of the barge warped alongside. The sun rose higher, and the day warmed. At the first opportunity, he slipped away on the excuse that he needed a drink of water, and vanished into the poor quarter. He must make his way out of Ontoset without help. To approach any other link in his net was to risk being rediscovered; worse, he might lead his pursuit to a fresh area of endeavor, and expose still more of his undercover workings. There were men in this city who would harbor fugitives for pay, but Arakasi dared not approach them. They could be infiltrated by the enemy, and his need to escape might connect him irrefutably to the incident at the warehouse. He wished for a bath and a chance to soak out the splinters still lodged under his skin, but he would get neither. A slave’s grey clothing or a beggar’s rags must see him past the city gates. Once outside the walls, he must hole up in the countryside until he could be certain he had made a clean break. Then he might try the guise of a courier and hasten to make up for his delay. He sighed, discomforted by the extended time he would be traveling, left alone with conjecture. He held troubled thoughts, of an unknown antagonist who had nearly taken him out of play with one move, and that enemy’s master, an unseen, unassailable threat. With Clan War between Mara and Lord Jiro decreed forbidden by the magicians, his beloved Lady of the Acoma was endangered. As opportunists and enemies banded into alliances against her, she was going to need the best intelligence to ward from her yet more underhanded moves in the murderous intrigues of the Great Game. The tailor allowed the robe’s silken hem to fall to the floor. Pins of finely carved bone were clenched between his teeth; he stepped back to admire the fit of the formal garment commissioned by the Lord of the Anasati. Lord Jiro endured the craftsman’s scrutiny with contained disdain. His features expressionless, he stood with his arms held out from his body to avoid a chance prick from the pins that fastened the cuffs. His posture was so still that the sequins sewn in the shape of killwings that adorned the front of the robe did not even shimmer in the light that fell through the open screen. ‘My Lord,’ lisped the tailor around the pins pinched between his teeth, ‘you look splendid. Surely every unmarried noble daughter who beholds your magnificence will swoon at your feet.’ Jiro’s lips twitched. He was not a man who enjoyed flattery. Careful with appearances to the point where the unperceptive might mistakenly think him vain, he well knew the value of clothing when it came to leaving an impression. The wrong raiment could make a man seem stupid, overweight, or frivolous. Since swordplay and the rigors of battle were not to Jiro’s taste, he used every other means to enhance his aspect of virility. An edge could be gained, or a contest of wits turned into victory more subtle than any coarse triumph achieved on the fields of war. Proud of his ability to master his foes without bloodshed, Jiro had to restrain himself not to bridle at the tailor’s thoughtless compliment. The man was a craftsman, a hireling barely worth of notice, much less his anger. His words were of less consequence than the wind, and only chance had caused him to jar against a memory Jiro yet held with resentment. Despite his closest attention to manners and dress, Lady Mara had spurned him. The awkward, coarse-mannered Buntokapi had been chosen over him. Even passing recollection caused Jiro to sweat with repressed fury. His years of studied effort had availed him not at all, when all of his wits and schooled charm had been summarily dismissed by the Acoma. His ridiculous – no, laughable – lout of a brother had triumphed over him. Bunto’s smirk was unforgiven; Jiro still stung from remembered humiliation. His hands closed into fists, and he suddenly had no stomach for standing still. ‘I don’t like this robe,’ he snapped peevishly. ‘It displeases me. Make another, and have this one torn up for rags.’ The tailor turned pale. He whipped the pins from his teeth and dropped to the parquet floor, his forehead pressed to the wood. ‘My Lord! As you wish, of course. I beg humble forgiveness for my lack of taste and judgment.’ Jiro said nothing. He jerked his barbered head for a servant to remove the robe and drop it in a heap underfoot. ‘I will wear the blue-and-red silk. Fetch it now.’ His command was obeyed in a flurry of nervousness. The Lord of the Anasati seldom punished his slaves and attendants, but from the day he assumed his inheritance he had made it clear that anything short of instant obedience would never be tolerated. Arriving to make his report, First Adviser Chumaka noted the near-frenzied obsequious behavior on the part of the servants. He gave not a twitch in reaction; wisest of the Anasati retainers, he knew his Lord best of all. The master did not appreciate overdone obeisance; quite the contrary. Jiro had matured as a second son, and he liked things quiet and without fanfare. Yet since he had inherited a ruler’s mantle without having been groomed to expect the post, he was ever sensitive to the behavior of his underlings toward him. Should they fail to give him his due respect as Lord, he would notice, and take instantaneous issue. The servant who was late to speak his title, the slave who failed to bow without delay upon presentation, were never forgiven their lapse. Like fine clothing and smooth manners, traditional Tsurani adherence to caste was part and parcel of how Ruling Lords were measured by their peers. Eschewing the barbaric aspects of the battlefield, Jiro had made himself a master of civilised behavior. As if a robe of finest silk did not lie discarded like garbage under his sandaled feet, he inclined his head while Chumaka straightened up from his bow. ‘What brings you to consult at this hour, First Adviser? Did you forget I had planned an afternoon of discourse with the visiting scholars from Migran?’ Chumaka tipped his head to one side, as a hungry rodent might fix on moving prey. ‘I suggest, my Lord, that the scholars be made to wait while we take a short walk.’ Lord Jiro was vexed, though nothing showed. He allowed his servants to tie his robe sash before he replied. ‘What you have to say is that important?’ As all who were present well knew, Jiro held afternoon court to attend to business with his factors. If his meeting with the scholars was delayed, it would have to wait until morning, which spoiled his hour set aside for reading. The Anasati First Adviser presented his driest smile and deftly handled the impasse. ‘It pertains to Lady Mara of the Acoma, and that connection I mentioned earlier concerning the vanquished Tuscai.’ Jiro’s interest brightened. ‘The two are connected?’ Chumaka’s stillness before the servants provided its own answer. Excited now, Lord Jiro clapped for his runner. ‘Find my hadonra and instruct him to provide entertainment for our guests. They shall be told that I am detained and will meet with them tomorrow morning. Lest they become displeased by these arrangements, it shall be explained that I am considering awarding a patronage, if I am impressed by their worthiness in the art of verbal debate.’ The runner bowed to the floor and hurried off about his errand. Chumaka licked his teeth in anticipation as his master fell into step with him toward the outer screen that led into the garden. Jiro seated himself on a stone bench in the shade by a fish pool. He trailed languid fingers in the water while his attention to Chumaka sharpened. ‘Is it good news or bad?’ As always, the First Adviser’s reply was ambiguous. ‘I’m not certain.’ Before his master could express displeasure, Chumaka adjusted his robe and fished a sheaf of documents out of a deep pocket. ‘Perhaps both, my Lord. A small, precautionary surveillance I set in place identified someone highly placed in the Acoma spy network.’ He paused, his thoughts branching off into inaccessibly vague speculation. ‘What results?’ Jiro prompted, in no mood for cleverness that he lacked the finesse to follow. Chumaka cleared his throat. ‘He eluded us.’ Jiro looked nettled. ‘How could this be good news?’ Chumaka shrugged. ‘We know he was someone of importance; the entire operation in Ontoset was closed down as a result. The factor of the House of Habatuca suddenly became what he appeared to be: a factor.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘Business is terrible, so we may assume that the goods being brokered by this man were Acoma, not Habatuca.’ He glanced at one of his documents and folded it. ‘We know the Habatuca are not Acoma minions; they are firmly in the Omechan Clan, and traditionalists whom we might find useful someday. They don’t even suspect this man is not their loyal servant, but then they are a very disorganized house.’ Jiro tapped his chin with an elegantly manicured finger as he said, ‘This factor’s removal is significant?’ Chumaka said, ‘Yes, my Lord. The loss of that agent will hamper Acoma operation in the East. I can assume that almost all information coming from that region was funneled through Ontoset.’ Jiro smiled, no warmth in his expression. ‘Well then, we’ve stung them. But now they also know we are watching them with our own agents.’ Chumaka said, ‘That was inevitable, my Lord. I am surprised they hadn’t been aware of us sooner. Their network is well established and practiced. That we observed them undetected as long as we did was something close to miraculous.’ Seeing a gleam in his First Adviser’s eyes, Jiro said, ‘What else?’ ‘I said this was related to the long-dead Lord of the Tuscai, from years before you were born. Just before Jingu of the Minwanabi destroyed House Tuscai, I had unearthed the identity of one of the dead Lord’s key agents, a grain merchant in Jamar. When the Tuscai natami was buried, I assumed the man continued his role as an independent merchant in earnest. He had no public ties to House Tuscai, therefore no obligation to assume the status of outcast.’ Jiro went still at this implied, venal dishonesty. A master’s servants were considered cursed by the gods if he should die; his warriors became slaves or grey warriors – or had, until Lady Mara had despicably broken the custom. Chumaka ignored his master’s discomfort, caught up as he was in reminiscence. ‘My assumption was incorrect, as I now have cause to suspect. In any event, that wasn’t of significance until recently. ‘Among those who came and went in Ontoset were a pair of men I know to have served at the grain merchant’s in Jamar. They showed me the connection. Since no one beside Lady Mara has taken grey warriors to house service, we can extrapolate that the Spy Master and his former Tuscai agents are now sworn to the Acoma.’ ‘So we have this link,’ Jiro said. ‘Can we infiltrate?’ ‘It would be easy enough, my Lord, to fool the grain merchant, and get our own agent inside.’ Chumaka frowned. ‘But the Acoma Spy Master would anticipate that. He is very good. Very.’ Jiro cut off this musing with a chopping motion. Brought back to the immediate issue, Chumaka came to his point. ‘At the very least, we’ve stung the Acoma by making them shut down a major branch of their organisation in the East. And far better, we now know the agent in Jamar is again operative; that man must sooner or later report to his master, and then we are back on the hunt. This time I will not let fools handle the arrangements and blunder as they did in Ontoset. If we are patient, in time we will have a clear lead back to the Acoma Spy Master.’ Jiro was less than enthusiastic. ‘We may waste all our efforts, now that our enemy knows his inside agent was compromised.’ ‘True, my master.’ Incomo licked his teeth. ‘But we are ahead, in the long view. We know the former Tuscai Spy Master works now for Lady Mara. I had made inroads into that net, before the Tuscai were destroyed. I can resume observation of the agents I suspected as being Tuscai years ago. If those men are still in the same positions, that simple fact will confirm them as Acoma operatives. I will set more traps, manned by personnel whom I will personally instruct. Against this Spy Master we will need our best. Yes.’ The First Adviser’s air became self-congratulatory. ‘It is chance that led us to the first agent, and almost netted us someone highly placed.’ Chumaka wafted the document to fan his flushed cheeks. ‘We now watch the house, and I am certain our watchers are being watched, so I have others watching to see who is watching us …’ He shook his head. ‘My opponent is wily beyond comprehension. He –’ ‘Your opponent?’ Jiro interrupted. Chumaka stifled a start and inclined his head in respect. ‘My Lord’s enemy’s servant. My opposite, if you will. Permit an old man this small vanity, my Lord. This servant of the Acoma who opposes my work is a most suspicious and clever man.’ He referred again to his paper. ‘We will isolate this other link in Jamar. Then we can pursue the next –’ ‘Spare me the boring particulars,’ Jiro broke in. ‘I had thought I commanded you to pursue whoever is trying to defame the Anasati by planting false evidence on the assassin who killed my nephew?’ ‘Ah,’ Chumaka said brightly, ‘But the two events are connected! Did I not say so earlier?’ Unaccustomed to sitting without the comfort of cushions, Jiro shifted his weight. ‘If you did, only another mind as twisted as yours would have understood the reference.’ This the Anasati First Adviser interpreted as a compliment. ‘Master, your forbearance is touching.’ He stroked the paper as if it were precious. ‘I have proof, at last. Those eleven Acoma agents in the line that passed information across Szetac Province that were mysteriously murdered in the same month – they were indeed connected with five others who also died in the household of Tasaio of the Minwanabi.’ Jiro wore a stiff expression that masked rising irritation. Before he could speak, Chumaka rushed on, ‘They were once Tuscai agents, all of them. Now it appears they were killed to eradicate a breach in the Acoma chain of security. We had a man in place in Tasaio’s household. Though he was dismissed when Mara took over the Minwanabi lands, he is still loyal to us. I have his testimony, here. The murders inside Tasaio’s estate house were done by the Hamoi Tong.’ Jiro was intrigued. ‘You think Mara’s man duped the tong into cleaning up an Acoma mishap?’ Chumaka looked smug. ‘Yes. I think her far too clever Spy Master made the error of forging Tasaio’s chop. We know the Obajan spoke with the Minwanabi Lord. Both were reportedly angry – had it been with each other, Tasaio would have died long before Mara brought him down. If the Acoma were behind the destruction of their own compromised agents, and they used the tong as an unwitting tool to rid themselves of that liability, then grave insult was done to the tong. If this happened, the Red Flower Brotherhood would seek vengeance on its own.’ Jiro digested this with slitted eyes. ‘Why involve the tong in what seems a routine cleanup? If Mara’s man is as good as your ranting, he would hardly be such a fool.’ ‘It had to be a move of desperation,’ Chumaka allowed. ‘Tasaio’s regime was difficult to infiltrate. For our part, we placed our agent there before the man became Lord, when he was Subcommander in the Warlord’s army invading Midkemia.’ As Jiro again showed impatience, Chumaka sighed. How he wished his master could be schooled to think and act with more foresight; but Jiro had always fidgeted, even as a boy. The First Adviser summed up. ‘Mara had no agents in House Minwanabi that were not compromised. The deaths therefore had to be an outside job, and the tong’s dealings with Tasaio offered a convenient remedy.’ ‘You guess all this,’ Jiro said. Chumaka shrugged. ‘It is what I would have done in his position. The Acoma Spy Master excels at innovation. We could have made contact with the net in Ontoset, and traced its operation for ten years, and never once made the connection between the agents in the North, the others in Jamar, and the communication line that crossed Szetac. To come as far as fast as we have is more due to luck than to my talents, master.’ Jiro seemed unimpressed by the topic that enthralled his First Adviser. He seized instead on the matter closest to Anasati honor. ‘You have proof that the tong acts on its own volition,’ he snapped. ‘Then in planting evidence of our collusion in Ayaki of the Acoma’s assassination, the Hamoi has sullied the honor of my ancestors. It must be stopped from this outrage! And at once.’ Chumaka blinked, stopped cold in his thinking. He quickly licked his lips. ‘But no, my worthy master. Forgive my presumption if I offer you humble advice to the contrary.’ ‘Why should we let the Hamoi Tong dogs shame House Anasati?’ Jiro straightened on the bench and glared. ‘Your reason had better be good!’ ‘Well,’ Chumaka allowed, ‘to kill Lady Mara, of course. Master, it is too brilliant. What more dangerous enemy could the Acoma have, other than a tong of assassins? They will spoil her peace past redemption, at each attempt to take her life. In the end, they will succeed. She must die; the honor of their brotherhood demands it. The Hamoi Tong do our work for us, and we, meantime, can divert our interests into consolidation of the traditionalist faction.’ Chumaka wagged a lecturing finger. ‘Now that war has been forbidden to both sides by the magicians, Mara will seek your ruin by other means. Her resources and allies are vast. As Servant of the Empire, she has popularity and power, as well as the ear of the Emperor. She must not be underestimated. Added to the advantages I have listed, she is an unusually gifted ruler.’ Jiro spoke in swift rebuke. ‘You sing her praises in my presence?’ His tone remained temperate, but Chumaka held no illusions: his master was offended. He answered in a whisper that no gardener or patrolling warrior might overhear. ‘I was never overly fond of your brother, Bunto. So his death was of little consequence to me personally.’ While Jiro’s face darkened with rage, Chumaka’s reprimand cut like a knife: ‘And you were never that fond of him, either, my Lord Jiro.’ As the elegant, stiff-faced ruler acknowledged this truth, Chumaka continued. ‘You overlook the obvious: Mara’s marriage to Bunto instead of you saved your life … my master.’ Short of wheedling calculation, the First Adviser finished, ‘So if you must entertain this hatred of the Servant of the Empire, I will seek her destruction with all my heart. But I will proceed calmly, for to let anger cloud judgment is not merely foolish – with Mara it is suicide. Ask a shade gleaner at the Temple of Turakamu to seek communion with Jingu, Desio, and Tasaio of the Minwanabi. Their spirits will confirm that.’ Jiro stared down at the ripples of water turned by the orange fish in the pool. After a prolonged moment, he sighed. ‘You are right. I never did care for Bunto; he bullied me when we were children.’ His hand closed into a fist, which he splashed down, scattering the fish. ‘My anger may be unwarranted, but it burns me nonetheless!’ He looked up again at Chumaka, his eyes narrowed. ‘But I am Lord of the Anasati. I am not required to make sense. Wrong was done to my House and it will be redressed!’ Chumaka bowed, clearly respectful. ‘I will see Mara of the Acoma dead, master, not because I hate her, but because that is your will. I am ever your faithful servant. Now we know who Mara’s Spy Master is –’ ‘You know this man?’ Jiro exclaimed in astonishment. ‘You’ve never once said you knew the identity of the Tuscai Spy Master!’ Chumaka made a deprecatory gesture. ‘Not by name, nor by looks, curse him for the brilliant fiend he is. I have never knowingly met him, but I recognise the manner of his craft. It has a signature like that of a scribe.’ ‘Which is far from solid evidence,’ Jiro was fast to point out. ‘Final proof will be difficult to get if I have recognised the same man’s touch. Should this former Tuscai Spy Master have taken Mara’s service, the gods may smile upon us yet. He may be a master of guile, yet I know his measure. My past knowledge of the Tuscai operation in Jamar should enable us to infiltrate his operation. After a few years we may have access to the man himself, and then we can manipulate the intelligence in Mara’s net as we desire. Our intent must be made behind diversionary maneuvers to disrupt Acoma trade and alliances. Meanwhile the tong will be seeking Mara’s downfall as well.’ ‘Perhaps we could encourage the brotherhood’s efforts a bit,’ Lord Jiro offered hopefully. Chumaka sucked in a quick breath at the mere suggestion. He bowed before starting to speak, which he only did when alarmed. ‘My master, that we dare not try. Tong are tight-knit, and too deadly at their craft to meddle with. Best we keep Anasati affairs as far removed from their doings as possible.’ Jiro conceded this point with regret, while his First Adviser proceeded with optimism. ‘The Hamoi Brotherhood is not one to act in hot blood; no. Its works on its own behalf have ever been slow-moving, and cold. Traffic has passed between the Hamoi and Midkemia that I did not understand as it occurred; but now I suspect it has roots in a long-range attempt to hurt the Acoma. The Lady has a well-known weakness for barbarian ideas.’ ‘That is so,’ Jiro conceded. His temper fled before thoughtfulness; he regarded the play of the fish. No adviser of any house was more adept than Chumaka at stringing together seemingly unrelated bits of information. And all the Empire had heard rumors of the Lady’s dalliance with a Midkemian slave. That was a vulnerability well worth exploiting. Cued by the softening of his master’s manner, and judging his moment with precision, Chumaka said, ‘The Anasati can bear the tiny slight in the manner of the bungled evidence. Fools and children might believe inept information. But the wiser Ruling Lords all know that the tong keeps close guard on its secrets. The powerful in the Nations will never seriously believe such transparent ploys to link your name with a hired killer. The Anasati name is old. Its honor is unimpeachable. Show only boldness before petty slurs, my master. They are unworthy of a great Lord’s attention. Let any ruler who dares come forward to suggest the contrary, and you will correct the matter forcefully.’ Chumaka ended with a quotation from a play that Jiro favored. ‘“Small acts partner small houses and small minds.”’ The Lord of the Anasati nodded. ‘You are right. My anger tends sometimes to blind me.’ Chumaka bowed at the compliment. ‘My master, I ask permission to be excused. I have already begun to consider snares that may be set for Mara’s Spy Master. For while we appear to blunder about with the one hand revealed in Ontoset, that will draw the watchful eye away from the other, silently at work in Jamar to bring the dagger to the throat of the Lady of the Acoma.’ Jiro smiled. ‘Excellent, Chumaka.’ He clapped in dismissal. While his First Adviser bowed again and hurried away, muttering possible plots under his breath, the Lord remained by the fish pool. He considered Chumaka’s advice, and felt a glow of satisfaction. When the Assembly of Magicians had forbidden war between his house and Mara’s, he had been covertly ecstatic. With the Lady deprived of her army, and the clear supremacy she held by force of numbers on the battlefield, the stakes between them had been set even. ‘Wits,’ the Lord of the Anasati murmured, stirring the water and causing the fish to flash away in confused circles. ‘Guile, not the sword, will bring the Good Servant her downfall. She will die knowing her mistake when she chose my brother over me. I am the better man, and when I meet Buntokapi after death in the Red God’s halls, he will know that I gave him vengeance, and also ground his precious House Acoma under my heel into dust!’ Arakasi was late. His failure to return had the Acoma senior advisers on edge to the point where Force Commander Lujan dreaded to attend the evening’s council. He hurried to his quarters to retrieve the plumed helm he had shed during off-duty hours. His stride was purposeful, precise in balance as only a skilled swordsman’s would be; yet his mind was preoccupied. His nod to the patrolling sentries who saluted his passage was mechanical. The Acoma estate house had as many armed men in its halls now as servants; privacy since Ayaki’s murder was next to nonexistent, particularly at night, when extra warriors slept in the scriptorium and the assorted wings of the guest suites. Justin’s nursery was an armed camp; Lujan reflected that the boy could hardly play at toy soldiers for the constant tramp of battle sandals across the floors of his room. Yet as the only carrier of the Acoma bloodline, after Mara, his safety was of paramount concern. Lacking Arakasi’s reliable reports, the patrols walked their beats in uncertainty. They were starting at shadows, half drawing swords at the footfalls of drudges secreted in corners to meet their sweethearts. Lujan sighed, and froze, shaken alert by the sound of a sword sliding from a scabbard. ‘You there!’ shouted a sentry, ‘Halt!’ Now running, Lujan flung himself around a corner in the corridor. Ahead, the warrior with drawn sword crouched down, battle-ready. He confronted a nook deep in shadow where nothing appeared to be amiss. From behind, the tap and shuffle peculiar to a man moving in haste on a crutch warned that Keyoke, Mara’s Adviser for War, had also heard the disturbance. Too long a field commander to ignore a warrior’s challenge, he also rushed to find out who trespassed in the innermost corridors of the estate house. Let it not be another assassin, Lujan prayed as he ran. He strained to see through the gloom, noting that a lamp that should have been left burning was dark. Not a good sign, he thought grimly; the council suddenly deferred by this intrusion now seemed the kinder choice of frustrations. Snarls in trade and the uneasy shifting of alliances within Ichindar’s court might be maddeningly puzzling without Arakasi’s inside knowledge. But an attack by another tong dart man this far inside the patrols was too harrowing a development to contemplate. Though months had passed, Justin still had nightmares from seeing the black gelding’s fall … Lujan skidded to a stop by the sword-bearing warrior, his sandal studs scraping the stone floor. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded. Old Keyoke thumped to a halt on the warrior’s other side, his dry shout demanding the same. The warrior never shifted his glance, but made a fractional gesture with his sword toward the cranny between two beams that supported a join in the rooftree. A long-past repair had replaced a rotted section of wood. The estate house Mara and Hokanu inhabited was ancient, and this was one of the original sections. The slate scored white by Lujan’s battle sandals was close to three thousand years old, and rubbed into ruts from uncounted generations of footsteps. There were too many corners to shelter intruders, Lujan felt as he looked where his sentry pointed. A man lurked in the shadow. He stood with hands outstretched in submission, but his face was suspiciously smudged, as if he had used lamp soot to blacken the telltale pallor of his flesh. Lujan freed his sword. With inscrutable features, Keyoke raised his crutch, thumbed a hidden catch, and drew a thin blade from the base. For all that he had lost one leg, he balanced himself without discernible effort. To the intruder now faced with three bared blades, Lujan said curtly, ‘Come out. Keep your hands up if you don’t want to die spitted.’ ‘I would rather not be welcomed back like a cut of meat at the butcher’s,’ replied a voice rust-grained as neglected iron. ‘Arakasi,’ Keyoke said, raising his weapon in salute. His ax-blade profile broke into a rare smile. ‘Gods!’ Lujan swore. He reached out barehanded and touched the sentry, who lowered his blade. The Acoma Force Commander shivered to realise how near Mara’s Spy Master had come to dying at the hands of a house guard. Then relief and a countersurge of high spirits made him laugh. ‘Finally! How many years have Keyoke and I attempted to set unpredictable patrols? Can it be that for once, my good man, you failed to walk right through them?’ ‘It was a rough trip home,’ Arakasi conceded. ‘Not only that, this estate has more warriors on duty than house staff. A man can’t move three steps without tripping over someone in armor.’ Keyoke sheathed his concealed blade and replaced his crutch beneath his shoulder. Then he raked his fingers through his white hair, as he had never been able to do when he was a field commander, perpetually wearing a battle helm. ‘Lady Mara’s council is due to begin shortly. She has need of your news.’ Arakasi did not reply, but pushed out from behind the posts that had hidden him from sight. He was robed as a street beggar. His untrimmed hair was lank with dirt, his skin was ingrained with what looked like soot. He smelled pervasively of woodsmoke. ‘You look like something dragged out by a chimney sweeper,’ Lujan observed, gesturing for the sentry to resume his interrupted patrol. ‘Or as if you had been sleeping in trees for the better part of a sevenday.’ ‘Not far from the truth,’ Arakasi muttered, turning an irritated glance aside. Keyoke disliked waiting for anyone; now free to indulge the impatience he had repressed for years while commanding troops, he had stumped on ahead toward the council hall. As if relieved by the old man’s departure, Arakasi bent, raised the hem of his robe, and scratched at a festering sore. Lujan stroked his chin. Tactfully he said, ‘You could come to my quarters first. My body servant is practiced at drawing a bath on short notice.’ A brief silence ensued. At last Arakasi sighed. ‘Splinters,’ he admitted. Since one terse word was all he was likely to receive in explanation, Lujan surmised the rest. ‘They’re infected. That means not recent. You’ve been too much on the run to draw them out.’ Another silence followed, affirming Lujan’s surmise. He and Arakasi had known each other since before House Tuscai had fallen, and had shared many years as grey warriors. ‘Come along,’ the Force Commander urged. ‘If you sit in Lady Mara’s presence in this state, the servants will need to burn the cushions afterward. You stink like a Khardengo who lost his wagon.’ Not pleased by the comparison to an itinerant family member that traveled from city to city selling cheap entertainment and disreputable odd jobs, Arakasi curled his lip. ‘You can get me a metal needle?’ he bargained warily. Lujan laughed. ‘As it happens, I might. There’s a girl among the seamstresses that fancies me. But you’ll owe me. If I ask her for the loan of such a treasure, she is bound to make demands.’ Aware that few young maids in the household would not willingly jeopardise their next station on the Wheel of Life for the promise of Lujan’s kisses, Arakasi was unimpressed. ‘I can as easily use one of my daggers.’ His apparent indifference set Lujan on edge. ‘The news you bring is not good.’ Now Arakasi faced the Acoma Force Commander fully. Light from the lamp down the corridor caught on his gaunt cheekbones and deepened the hollows under his eyes. ‘I think I will accept your offer of a bath,’ he responded obtusely. Lujan knew better than to tease that his friend the Spy Master also looked as if he had not eaten or slept for a week. The observation this time would have held more truth than jest. ‘I’ll get you that needle,’ he allowed, then hastened on in an attempt to ease Arakasi’s ruffled pride through humor. ‘Though you certainly don’t need it, if you’re carrying your knives. I doubt my sentry understood when he held you at swordpoint that you could have killed and carved him before he had a chance to make a thrust.’ ‘I’m good,’ Arakasi allowed. ‘But today, I think, not that good.’ He stepped forward. Only now it became apparent that he was far from steady on his feet. He awarded Lujan’s startled gasp of concern his blandest expression of displeasure and added, ‘You are on your honor not to allow me to fall asleep in your tub.’ ‘Fall asleep or drown?’ Lujan quipped back, extending a fast hand to assist the Spy Master’s balance. ‘Man, what have you been up to?’ But badger though he might, the Force Commander received no explanation from the Spy Master until the bath was done, and the helm retrieved, and the council was well on into session. Keyoke was already seated in the yellow light cast by the circle of lamps, his leathery hands crossed on the crutch across his knees. Word of Arakasi’s homecoming had been sent to the kitchens, and servants hurried in with trays laden with snacks. Hokanu attended at Mara’s right hand, in the place normally occupied by the First Adviser, while Saric and Incomo sat in low-voiced conference opposite. Jican huddled with his arms around his knees behind a mountainous pile of slates. Bins stuffed with scrolls rested like bastions at either elbow, while his expression looked faintly beleaguered. Arakasi ran his eyes quickly over the gathering and surmised in his dry way, ‘Trade has not been going well in my absence, I can see.’ Jican bristled at this, which effectively canceled anyone’s immediate notice of the Spy Master’s ragged condition. ‘We are not compromised,’ the little hadonra swiftly defended. ‘But there have been several ventures in the markets that have gone awry. Mara has lost allies among the merchants who also have Anasati interests.’ In visible relief, he finished, ‘The silk auctions did not suffer.’ ‘Yet,’ Incomo supplied, unasked. ‘The traditionalists continue to gain influence. Ichindar’s Imperial Whites more than once had to shed blood to stop riots in Kentosani.’ ‘The food markets by the wharf,’ Arakasi affirmed in spare summary. ‘I heard. Our Emperor would do more to stop dissension if he could manage to sire himself an heir that was not a daughter.’ Eyes turned toward the Lady of the Acoma as her staff all waited upon whatever she might ask of them. Thinner than she had been on the occasion of Ayaki’s funeral, she was nonetheless immaculately composed. Her face was washed clean of makeup. Her eyes were focused and keen, and her hands settled in her lap as she spoke. ‘Arakasi has revealed that we are confronted by a new threat.’ Only her voice showed the ongoing strain she yet hid behind the Tsurani fa?ade of control; never before Ayaki’s loss had she spoken with such a hard-edged clarity of hatred. ‘I ask you all to grant him whatever aid he may ask without question.’ Lujan flashed Arakasi a sour glance. ‘You had already dirtied her cushions, I now see,’ he murmured with injured irritation. Keyoke looked a touch disgruntled. The discovery was belated that the patrol which had finally caught the Spy Master lurking in the corridors had done so only after he had held a conference with the mistress, undetected by any. Aware of the byplay, but obliged by code of conduct to ignore it, the other two advisers inclined their heads in acceptance of the mistress’s wishes. Only Jican fidgeted, aware as he was that Mara’s decree would create additional havoc in the Acoma treasury. Arakasi’s services came at high costs of operation, which caused the hadonra unceasing, hand-wringing worry. A breeze wafted through the open windows above the great hall of the Acoma, carved into the side of the hill against which the estate house rested. Despite the brilliance of the lamps, the room was thrown into gloom in the farthest corners. The cho-ja globes on their stands stayed unlit, and the low dais used for informal conference remained the only island of illumination. Those servants in attendance waited a discreet distance away, within call should they be needed but out of earshot of any discussion. Mara resumed, ‘What we speak of here must be kept in our circle alone.’ She asked Arakasi, ‘How much time do you need to spend upon this new threat?’ Arakasi gave a palms-upward shrug that revealed a yellow bruise on one wristbone. ‘I can only surmise, mistress. My instincts tell me the organisation I encountered is based to the east of us, probably in Ontoset. We have light ties between there and Jamar and the City of the Plains, since the cover was a factor’s business. An enemy who discovered our workings to the west would see nothing beyond coincidence in the eastern connection. Yet I do not know where the damage originated. The trace could have started somewhere else.’ Mara chewed her lip. ‘Explain.’ ‘I did some cursory checking before I returned to Sulan-Qu.’ More nervelessly cold than Keyoke could be before battle, the Spy Master qualified. ‘On the surface, our trading interests seem secure to the west and north. The recent expansion I have regrettably been forced to curtail was located south and east. Our unknown opponent may have stumbled onto some operation we just set in place; or not. I cannot say. His effect has been felt very clearly. He has detected some aspect of our courier system, and deduced of our methods to establish a network to observe us. This enemy has placed watchers where they are likely to trap someone they hope they can trace back to a position of authority. From this I extrapolate that our enemy has his own system to glean advantage from such an opportunity.’ Hokanu settled an arm around Mara’s lower back, though her manner did not indicate she needed comfort. ‘How can you be certain of this?’ Baldly Arakasi said, ‘Because it is what I would have done.’ He smoothed his robe to conceal the welts the splinters had marked on his shins. ‘I was almost taken, and that is no easy feat.’ His flat phrases implied a total lack of conceit as he raised one finger. ‘I am worried because we have been compromised.’ He lifted a second finger and added, ‘I am relieved to have made a clean escape. If the team that gave me chase ever guessed whom they had cornered, they would have taken extreme measures to be thorough. Subterfuge would have been abandoned in favor of my successful capture. Therefore, they must have expected to net a courier or supervisor. My identity as Acoma Spy Master most likely remains uncompromised.’ Mara straightened in sudden decision. ‘Then it seems a wise course to absent yourself from this problem.’ Arakasi all but recoiled in surprise. ‘My Lady?’ Misinterpreting his reaction for hurt feelings that his competence lay questioned, Mara attempted to soften her pronouncement. ‘You are too critical to another problem that needs attention.’ She waved her dismissal to Jican, saying, ‘I think the trade problems can wait.’ While the little man bowed his acquiescence and snapped fingers to call his secretaries to help gather his tallies and scrolls, Mara commanded all the other servants to leave the great hall. When the great doubled doors swept closed, leaving her alone with the inner circle of her advisers, she said to her Spy Master, ‘I have something else for you to do.’ Arakasi spoke his mind plainly. ‘Mistress, there exists a great danger. Indeed, I fear the master in command of this enemy’s spy works may be the most dangerous man alive.’ Mara betrayed nothing of her thoughts as she nodded for him to continue. ‘Until this encounter I had the vanity to consider myself a master of my craft.’ For the first time since discussion had opened, the Spy Master had to pause to choose words. ‘This breach in our security was in no way due to carelessness. My men in Ontoset acted with unimpeachable discretion. For that reason, I fear this enemy we face could possibly be my better.’ ‘Then I am decided on the matter,’ Mara announced. ‘You shall turn this difficulty over to another that you trust. That way, if this unspecified enemy proves worthy of your praise, we suffer the loss of a man less critical to our needs.’ Arakasi bowed, his movement stiff with distress. ‘Mistress –’ Sharply Mara repeated, ‘I have another task for you.’ Arakasi fell instantly silent: Tsurani custom forbade a servant questioning his sworn ruler; and moreover the Lady’s mind was set. The hardness in her since the loss of her firstborn was not to be reasoned with; this much he recognised. That Hokanu sensed it also was plain, for even he refrained from speaking out against his Lady’s chosen course of action. The uncomfortable truth remained unsaid: that no one else in Arakasi’s vast network was either careful or experienced enough to counter a threat of this magnitude. The Spy Master would not disobey his mistress, though he were in mortal fear for her safety. All he could do was work in convoluted patterns, obeying her command in the literal sense, but evading what he could through general action. For the first, he must ensure that the man placed in nominal charge of digging out this new organisation could report to him on a regular basis. Disturbed as he was that Lady Mara should dismiss this dire threat with such ease, he respected her well enough to at least hear her reasons before he came to judgment against her. ‘What is this other matter, my Lady?’ His attentive manner smoothed Mara’s sharpness. ‘I would have you discover as much as may be learned about the Assembly of Magicians.’ For the first time since taking service with Mara, Arakasi seemed startled by her audacity. His eyes widened and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The Great Ones?’ Mara nodded toward Saric, since the slant the explanation must take had been his particular study. He spoke up from the far side of the circle. ‘Several events over the last few years have caused me to question the Black Robes’ motives. By tradition we take for granted that they act for the good of our Empire. But would it not shed a different light on things if, in fact, that were not so?’ Saric’s wry humor dissolved before a burning intensity of unease as he added, ‘Most critically, what if the Assembly’s wisdom is pointed toward their own self-interest? The pretext is stability of the nations; then why should they fear the Acoma crushing the Anasati in the cause of just revenge?’ The Acoma First Adviser leaned forward with his elbows braced on crossed knees. ‘These magicians are hardly fools. I can’t believe they don’t realise that by allowing the Lord who murders by treachery to live unpunished, they plunge the Empire into strife most extreme. An unavenged death is an express contradiction of honor. Without the political byplay of the High Council, deprived of the constant give-and-take between factions as a leavening agent, we are left with every house cast adrift, dependent upon the goodwill and promises of others to survive.’ To her Spy Master, Mara qualified, ‘Within a year’s time, a dozen houses or more will cease to exist, because I am forbidden to take the field against those who would return us to the Warlord’s rule. I am rendered powerless in the political arena. My clan cannot raise sword against the traditionalists, who now use Jiro as their front man. If I cannot make war upon him, I can no longer keep my pledge to protect those houses who are dependent upon Acoma alliance.’ Shutting her eyes for a moment, she seemed to gather herself. Arakasi’s regard of his Lady sharpened as he understood something: she had recovered from her mourning enough to have regained reason. She knew in her heart that the evidence against Jiro was too obvious to take seriously. But the cost of her loss of control at the funeral must be met without flinching: she had shamed her family name, and Jiro’s guilt or lack of it was moot point. To admit his innocence now was to make public admission of her error. This she could not honorably do without a worse question arising. Did she believe her enemy was clean of Ayaki’s blood, or was she simply backing down from exacting retribution for Ayaki? Not to avenge a murder was an irrevocable forfeit of honor. Regret as she might the heat of her rage and her wrong thinking, Mara could do nothing but manage the situation as if all along she believed in the Anasati’s treachery. To do other was not Tsurani, and a weakness that enemies would immediately exploit to bring her downfall. As if to escape distasteful memories, Mara resumed, ‘Within two years, many we would count allies will be dead or dishonored, and many more who are neutral might be persuaded or driven by political pressure into the traditionalist camp. The depleted Imperial Party will face off, but, without us, with the disastrous probability that a new Warlord will reinstate the Council. Should that sad day dawn, the man to wear the white-and-gold mantle would be Jiro of the Anasati.’ Arakasi rubbed his cheek with a knuckle, furiously thinking. ‘So you think the Assembly may be tinkering in politics for the reason of its own agenda. It is true that the Black Robes have always been jealous of their privacy. I know of no man who has entered their city and spoken of the experience. Lady Mara, to pry into that stronghold will be dangerous, and very difficult, if not outright impossible. They have truth spells that make it impossible to insinuate someone into their ranks. I have heard stories … though I might not be the first Spy Master to attempt an infiltration, no one who crosses a Great One with deceit in his heart lives to a natural end.’ Mara’s hands twisted into fists. ‘We must find a way to know their motives. More, we must discover a way to stop their interference, or at least to gain a clear delineation of what parameters they have set us. We must know how much we may accomplish without raising their wrath. Over time, perhaps a means can be found to negotiate with them.’ Arakasi bowed his head, resigned, but already at work on the grand scale the problem required. He had never expected to live to old age; puzzles, even dangerous ones, were all the delight he understood, though the one his Lady had proposed was all too likely to invite a swift destruction. ‘Your will, mistress. I shall begin at once to realign the interests of our agents to the northwest.’ Negotiation was a futile hope, one Arakasi rejected at the outset. To bargain at all, one must have either force to command or a persuasive reward as enticement. Power and popularity Mara had, but he, too, had witnessed the display of a single magician’s might when the Imperial Games had been disrupted by Milamber. Lady Mara’s thousands of warriors, and those of all her friends and allies, were as nothing compared to the arcane forces the Assembly commanded. And what in the world under heaven could anyone have that a Great One could desire and not simply take for the asking? Chilled, Arakasi considered the last alternative to effect coercion: extortion. If the Assembly held a secret that it would sell favors to keep any others from knowing, something it would be willing to grant concessions for, to ensure Mara kept her silence … The very idea was sheer folly. The Great Ones were above any law. Arakasi judged it more likely that even should he be lucky enough to find such a secret, the Black Robes would simply seal Mara’s permanent silence by putting her horribly to death. Saric, Lujan, and Keyoke understood this, he sensed, for their eyes were upon him most closely as he rose and made his final bow. This time, Mara dared too much, and they all feared for the outcome. Cold to the core of his spirit, Arakasi turned away. Nothing about his manner indicated that he cursed a savage fate. Not only must he sidetrack what instinct warned might be the most perilous threat to target Lady Mara so far, but he would even have to abandon any effort at effecting a countermeasure. Whole sections of his vast operation must be rendered dormant until after he had cracked an enigma no man had ever dared attempt. The riddle waited to be unraveled, beyond the shores of a nameless body of water, known only as the lake that surrounds the isle of the City of the Magicians. • Chapter Five • Machinations (#ulink_7c9835f1-84f3-5d66-9dd7-052467df92fb) Two years passed. No renewed attempts to assassinate the Lady of the Acoma came, and while all remained watchful, the sense of immediate risk had diminished. The tranquility that settled over the estate house as predawn light rinsed the sleeping chamber was all the more to be treasured. Pressures brought on by recent unfavorable developments in trade and the friction between political factions steadily brought more stresses to bear upon House Acoma’s resources. But now, only patrols were stirring, and the day’s messengers bearing news had yet to arrive. A shore bird called off the lake. Hokanu tightened his arms around his beloved Lady. His hands touched the ivory-smooth skin over her belly and a slight fullness there alerted him. Suddenly, the mornings she had closeted herself away from him and even her most trusted advisers made sense. An ecstatic flush of pleasure followed the obvious deduction. Hokanu smiled, his face pressed into the sweet waves of her hair. ‘Have the midwives told you yet whether the new Acoma heir is to be a son or a daughter?’ Mara twisted in his arms, her eyes wide with indignation. ‘I did not tell you I was pregnant! Which of my maids betrayed me?’ Hokanu said nothing; only his smile widened. The Lady reached down, grasped his two wrists, which were locked around her still, and concluded, ‘I see. My maids were all loyal, and I still cannot keep any secrets from you, husband.’ But she could; as clear as the rapport between them could be, there were depths to her that even Hokanu could not fathom, particularly since the death of her firstborn, as if grief had laid a shadow on her. Although her warmth as she laid her face against her husband was genuine, and her pleasure equally so as she whispered formally into his ear that he was soon going to be a father by blood, as well as through adoption, Hokanu sensed a darker undertone. Mara was troubled by something, this time not related to Ayaki’s loss, or to the Assembly’s intervention in her attempt to bring vengeance on Jiro. Equally, he sensed that this was not the moment to broach any inquiry into her affairs. ‘I love you, Lady,’ he murmured. ‘You had better accustom yourself to solicitude, because I’m going to spoil you shamelessly every day until the moment you give birth.’ He turned her in his arms and kissed her. ‘After that, we both might find I had acquired a habit too fine to break.’ Mara snuggled against him, her fingers trailing across his chest. ‘You are the finest husband in the Empire, beloved – far better than I deserve.’ Which was arguable, but Hokanu held his peace. He knew she loved him deeply and gave him as much care and satisfaction as any woman was capable of; the profoundly sensed certainty that something indefinable was missing from her side of the relationship was a feeling he had exhausted himself trying to fathom. For the Lady never lied to him, never stinted in her affections. Still she had moments when her thoughts were elsewhere, in a place he could never reach. She needed something his instincts warned him he lacked the means to provide. A pragmatic man, he did not try to force the impossible, but built upon their years together a contentment and a peace that were enduring and solid as a monument. He had succeeded in giving her happiness, until the dart struck the horse that killed her son. She shifted against him, her dark eyes apparently fixed upon the flower garden beyond the opened screen. Breezes caused her favorite kekali blossoms to nod, and their heavy perfume swirled through the chamber. Far off, the bread cook could be heard berating a slave boy for laziness; the sounds of the dispatch barge being loaded at dockside reached here, strangely amplified by still water and the mist-cloaked morning quiet. Hokanu caught Mara’s fingers and stroked them, and by the fact that they did not immediately respond knew she was not thinking of ordinary commerce. ‘Is it the Assembly on your mind again?’ he asked, knowing it was not, but also aware that an oblique approach would break the cold space around her thoughts and help her make a start at communicating. Mara closed her grip on his hand. ‘Your father’s sister has two boys, and you have a second cousin with five children, three of them sons.’ Unsure where this opening was leading, but also catching her drift, Hokanu nodded. He reflexively followed up on her next thought. ‘If something were to happen to Justin before your child was born, my father could choose among several cousins and relations to find a successor after me for the Shinzawai mantle. But you should not worry, love; I fully intend to stay alive and keep you safe.’ Mara frowned, more troubled than he had originally guessed. ‘No. We’ve been through this. I will not see the Acoma name merged with that of the Shinzawai.’ Hokanu drew her close, aware now of what lay beneath her tenseness. ‘You fear for the Acoma name, then I understand. Until our child is born, you are the last of your line.’ Her tenseness as she nodded betrayed the depths of a fear she had wrestled with and kept hidden for the intervening span of two years. And after all she had gone through to secure the continuance of her ancestors’ line, only to suffer the further loss of her son, he could not fault her. ‘Unlike your father, I have no remaining cousins, and no other option.’ She sucked a quick breath, and plunged ahead to the heart of the matter. ‘I want Justin sworn to the Acoma natami.’ ‘Mara!’ Hokanu said, startled. ‘Done is done! The boy is almost five years of age and sworn already to the Shinzawai!’ She looked stricken. Her eyes were too large in her face, and her bones too prominent, the result of grief and morning sickness. ‘Release him.’ There was an air of desperation about her, of determined hardness he had seen only in the presence of enemies; and gods knew, he was not an enemy. He stifled his initial shock, reached out, and again drew her against him. She was shaking, though her skin was not chilled. Patiently, carefully, he considered her position. He tried to unravel her motivations and achieve an understanding that would give him grounds to work with her; for he realised, for his father’s sake, that he would be doing no one any favors by changing Justin’s house loyalty – least of all the boy. By now the child was old enough to begin to comprehend the significance of the name to which he belonged. The death of an elder brother had fallen hard enough on the little one without his becoming the pawn of politics. Much as Hokanu loved Mara, he also recognised that Jiro’s enmity was more threat than he would wish to place on the shoulders of an innocent child. The rapport shared between the Lady and her consort cut both ways; Mara also had the gift of tracking Hokanu’s inner thoughts. She said, ‘It is a lot more difficult to murder a boy who is able to walk, talk, and recognise strangers than an infant in a crib. As Shinzawai heir, our new baby would be safer. A house, a whole line, would not be ended by one death.’ Hokanu could not refute such logic; what cost him peace and prevented his agreement was his own affection for Justin, not mentioning that his foster father, Kamatsu, had come to dote on the boy. Did a man take a child old enough to have tasted the joys of life, and thrust him into grave danger? Or did one set an innocent infant at risk? ‘If I die,’ Mara said in a near whisper, ‘there will be nothing. No child. No Acoma. My ancestors will lose their places on the Wheel of Life, and none will remain to hold Acoma honor in the eyes of the gods.’ She did not add, as she might have, that all she had done for herself would have gone for nothing. Her consort pushed himself upright against the pillows, drew her to lean against him, and combed back her dark hair. ‘Lady, I will think on what you have said.’ Mara twisted, jerking free of his caress. Beautiful, determined, and angry, she sat up straight and faced him. ‘You must not think. You must decide. Release Justin from his vows, for the Acoma must not go another day without an heir to come after me.’ There was an edge of hysteria to her. Hokanu read past that, to another worry, one she had not yet mentioned, that he had missed in the turmoil. ‘You are feeling cornered because Arakasi has been so long at the task you set him,’ he said on a note of inspiration. The wind seemed to go out of Mara’s sails. ‘Yes. Perhaps I asked too much of him, or began a more perilous course than I knew when I sent him to attempt to infiltrate the affairs of the Assembly.’ In a rare moment of self-doubt, she admitted, ‘I was hotheaded, and angry. In truth, things have gone more smoothly than I first feared. We have handled the upsurge of the traditionalist offensive without the difficulty I anticipated.’ Hokanu heard, but was not deceived into belief that she considered the affair settled. If anything, the quiet times and the minor snarls that erupted in trade transactions were harbingers of something deeper afoot. Tsurani Lords were devious; the culture itself for thousands of years had applauded the ruler who could be subtle, who could effect convoluted, long-range plotting to stage a brilliant victory years later. All too likely, Lord Jiro was biding his time, amassing his preparations to strike. He was no Minwanabi, to solve his conflicts on the field of war. The Assembly’s edict had effectively granted him unlimited time, and license to plot against the Acoma through intrigue, as was his penchant. Neither Mara nor Hokanu chose to belabor this point, which both of them feared. An interval of quiet stretched between them, filled with the sounds of the estate beginning to wake. The light through the screen changed from grey to rose-gold, and birdsong filtered in over the call of officers overseeing the change in the guard – warriors who had not patrolled so near the estate house before Ayaki’s death. Unspoken also was the understanding that the Anasati might in fact have been the target of the faked evidence carried by the tong. Jiro and the old-line traditionalists wished Mara dead, which made his enmity logical. Yet a third faction might be plotting unseen, to create this schism between the Acoma and Anasati alliance that had been sealed with Ayaki’s life. The attempt had been against Mara; had she died according to plan, her son would have inherited, as heir. Hokanu, in the vulnerable position of regent, would have been left to manage a sure clash between the Acoma, in an attempt to retain their independence as his Lady would have desired, and the Anasati, who would seek to annex that house on the strength of their blood tie to the boy. But if the contract with the tong that had seen Ayaki killed had not been under Jiro’s chop, all that had transpired since might be playing into the hands of some third party, perhaps the same Lord whose spy net had breached Arakasi’s security. ‘I think,’ said Hokanu with gentle firmness, ‘that we should not resolve this issue until we have heard from Arakasi, or one of his agents. If he has made headway in his attempt to gain insight into the Great Ones’ council, his network will send word. No news is best news, for now.’ Looking pale and strained, and feeling chilled as well, Mara nodded. The discomforts of her pregnancy were shortly going to make conversation difficult, in any event. She lay, limp in her husband’s arms, while he snapped his fingers and called for her maids. It was part of his singular devotion that kept him at her side through her early hours of illness. When she offered protest that he surely had better things to do with his time, he only smiled. The clock chimed. Mara pushed damp hair from her brow and sighed. She closed her eyes a moment, to ease the ongoing strain of reviewing the fine print of the trade factor’s reports from Sulan-Qu. Yet her interval of rest lasted scarcely seconds. A maid entered with a tray. Mara started slightly at the intrusion, then resigned herself to the interruption as the servant began laying out a light lunch on the small lap table beside the one she had left cluttered with unfinished business. As the mistress’s regard turned her way, the maid bowed, touching forehead to floor in obeisance very near to a slave’s. As Mara suspected, the girl wore livery trimmed in blue, Shinzawai colors. ‘My Lady, the master sent me to bring you lunch. He says you are too thin, and the baby won’t have enough to grow on if you don’t take time to eat.’ Mara rested a hand on her swollen middle. The boy child the midwives had promised her seemed to be developing just fine. If she herself looked peaked, impatience and nerves were the more likely cause rather than diet. This pregnancy wore at her, impatient as she was to be done with it, and to have the question of heirship resolved. She had not realised how much she had come to rely upon Hokanu’s companionship until strain had been put upon it. Her wish to name Justin as Acoma heir had exacted a high cost, and she longed for the birth of the child, that the altercation with Hokanu could be set behind them both. But the months until her due date seemed to stretch into infinity. Reflective, Mara stared out the window, where the akasi vines were in bloom and slaves were busy with shears trimming them back from the walk. The heavy perfume reminded her of another study, on her old estate, and a day in the past when a red-haired barbarian slave had upset her concept of Tsurani culture. Now, Hokanu was the only man in the Empire who seemed to share her progressive dreams and ideas. It was hard to speak to him, lately, without the issue of progeny coming between. The maid slipped out unobtrusively. Mara regarded the tray of fruit, bread, and cold cheeses with little enthusiasm. Still, she forced herself to fill up a plate and eat, however tasteless the food seemed on her tongue. Past experience had taught her that Hokanu would come by to check on her, and she did not wish to face the imploring tenderness in his eyes if she followed her inclinations and left the meal untouched. The report that had occupied her was far more serious than it appeared at first glance. A warehouse by the river had burned, causing damage to the surplus hides held off the spring market. The prices had not been up to standard this season, and rather than sell leather at such slight profit, Jican had consigned them for later delivery to the sandalmaker’s. Mara frowned. She set her barely touched plate aside, out of habit. Although it was no secret that, of all the houses in the Empire, hers was the only one to provide sandals for its bearer slaves and field hands, until now the subject only made her the butt of social small talk. Old-line traditionalist Lords laughed loudly and long, and claimed her slaves ran her household; one particularly cantankerous senior priest in the temple service of Chochocan, the Good God, had sent her a tart missive cautioning her that treating slaves too kindly was an offense against divine will. Make their lives too easy, the priest had warned, and their penance for earning heaven’s disfavor would not be served. They might be returned on the Wheel of Life as a rodent or other lowly beast, to make up for their lack of suffering in this present life. Saving the feet of slaves from cuts and sores was surely a detriment to their eternal spirits. Mara had returned a missive of placating banalities to the disaffected priest, and gone right on supplying sandals. But the current report, with her factor’s signature and impression of the battered chop used on the weekly inventories, was another matter. For the first time an enemy faction had sought to exploit her kind foible to the detriment of House Acoma. The damaged hides would be followed, she was sure, with a sudden, untraceable rumor in the slaves’ barracks that she had covertly arranged the fire as an excuse to spare the cost of the extra sandals. Since possession of footwear gave not only comfort, but also considerable status to the slaves in Acoma service, in the eyes of their counterparts belonging to other houses, the privilege was fiercely coveted. Though no Tsurani slave would ever consider rebellion, as disobedience to master or mistress was against the will of the gods, even the thought that their yearly allotment of sandals might be revoked would cause resentment that would not show on the surface but would result in sloppy field work, or tasks that somehow went awry. The impact on Acoma fortunes would be subtle, but tangible. The sabotage to the warehouse could become an insidiously clever ploy, because in order to rectify the shortage of leathers, Mara might draw the attention of more than just an old fanatic in the temple likely to write a protest to her. It could be seen in certain quarters that she was vulnerable, and temples that were previously friendly to her could suddenly become ‘neutral’ to a point just short of hostility. She could ill afford difficulties from the priesthood at this time, not with the Emperor’s enemies and her own allied in common cause to ruin her. The lunch tray remained neglected as she took up clean paper and pen and drew up an authorisation for the factor in Sulan-Qu to purchase new hides to be shipped to the sandalmaker’s. Then she sent her runner slave to fetch Jican, who in turn was ordered to place servants and overseers on the alert for rumors, that the question of footwear for the slaves might never become an issue. By the time the matter was resolved, the fruit sat in a puddle of juices, and the cheeses had warmed on the plate in the humid midafternoon air. Involved with the next report in the file, this one dealing with a trade transaction designed to inconvenience the Anasati, Mara heard footsteps at the screen. ‘I am finished with the lunch tray,’ she murmured without looking up. Presuming the servant would carry out the remains of her meal with the usual silent solicitude, she held her mind on its present track. But however many caravans were robbed, however many Anasati hwaet fields burned, no matter how many stacks of cloth goods were diverted on their way to market, or ships were sent to the wrong port, Mara found little satisfaction. Her heartache did not lessen. She gripped the parchments harder, searching the penned lines for some way to make her enemy feel her hatred in the place that would hurt the most. Hands reached over her shoulder, pulled the report from her grip, and gently massaged her neck, which had grown sore from too little movement. ‘The cooks will be asking to commit suicide by the blade when they see how little you cared for their lunch tray, my Lady,’ Hokanu said in her ear. He followed the admonition with a kiss on the crown of her head, and waited while Mara reddened with embarrassment at mistaking him for a servant. She went on to ruefully regard the uneaten meal. ‘Forgive me. I became so involved that I forgot.’ With a sigh, she turned in her husband’s embrace and kissed him back. ‘What was it this time, more mildew in the thyza sacks?’ he asked, a twinkle in his eyes. Mara rubbed her aching forehead. ‘No. The hides for the sandalmaker’s. We’ll purchase replacements.’ Hokanu nodded, one of the few men in the Empire who would not have argued that sandals for slaves were a waste of good funds. Aware how lucky she was to have such a husband, Mara returned his embrace and heroically reached for the food tray. Her husband caught her wrist with a firmness beyond argument. ‘That meal is spoiled. We’ll have the servants bring a fresh tray, and I’ll stay and share it with you. We’ve spent too little time together lately.’ He moved around her cushion, his swordsman’s grace as always lending beauty to what Mara knew were a lethal set of reflexes. Hokanu wore a loose silk robe, belted with linked shells and a buckle inlaid with lapis lazuli. His hair was damp, which meant he had come in from the bath he customarily took after working out with his officers. ‘You might not be hungry, but I could eat a harulth. Lujan and Kemutali decided to test whether fatherhood had made me complacent.’ Mara returned a faint smile. ‘They are both soaking bruises?’ she asked hopefully. Hokanu’s reply was rueful. ‘So was I, until a few minutes ago.’ ‘And are you complacent?’ Mara pressed. ‘Gods, no,’ Hokanu laughed. ‘Never in this house. Justin ambushed me twice on the way to my bath, and once again when I got out.’ Then, unwilling to dwell on the subject of the son that had become a bone of contention between them, he hurried to ask what kept the frown line between her eyes so prevalent. ‘Unless you’re scowling to test my complacency also,’ he ended. Mara was surprised into a laugh. ‘No. I know how lightly you sleep, dear heart. I’ll know you’re getting complacent on the night you stop starting up and tossing pillows and bedclothes at the slightest hint of a strange noise.’ Happy to see even a moment of mirth from her, Hokanu clapped for a servant to attend to the spoiled lunch tray, and to send to the kitchen for a fresh one. By the time he had disposed of even so brief a detail, he looked back at Mara and, by the faraway look in her eyes, knew he had lost her to contemplation. Her hands had gone tense in her lap, interlocked in the habitual way she assumed when thinking upon the task she had laid for her Spy Master. His hunch was confirmed presently when she said, ‘I wonder how far Arakasi has gotten in his attempt to infiltrate the City of the Magicians.’ ‘We shall not discuss the question until after you have eaten,’ Hokanu said in mock threat. ‘If you starve yourself anymore, there will be nothing left to you but an enormous belly.’ ‘Filled with your son and future heir!’ Mara retorted, equally playful, but not at all her unusually perceptive self, by her reference to a sensitive topic. Hokanu let the reference pass, in favor of keeping her peaceful enough to enjoy the fruits and light breads and meats he had sent for. On second thought, Arakasi’s attempt upon the security of the Assembly of Magicians was probably the safer choice of conversation. Arakasi at that moment sat in a noisy roadside tavern in the north of Neshka Province. He wore the striped robe of a free caravan drover, authentically scented with needra, and his right eye seemed to have acquired a cast. The left squinted to compensate, and also to disguise the tendency it had to water at the burning taste of the spirits reputedly brewed by Thun from tubers that grew in the tundra. Arakasi wet his tongue again with the vile liquor, and offered the flask to the caravan master he had spent the last hours attempting to cajole into intoxication. The caravan master had a head for spirits like a rock. He was a bald man, massively muscled, with a thunderous laugh, and a regrettable tendency to slap his companions on the back: probably the reason why the benches on either side of him stayed empty, Arakasi reflected. He had bruises across his rib cage from being slammed against the table edge by the man’s boisterous thumps. He could have chosen a better subject to pump for information, he realised in hindsight. But the other caravan masters tended to band together with their crews, and he needed one who stood apart. To insinuate himself among a tight-knit group, and to pry a man away from his fellows was likely to take too much time. He had the patience, had many times spent months gaining the confidence of targeted individuals to gain the intelligence Mara required. But here, in the deserted northern tavern, a man with close-knit friendships would be apt to remember a stranger who asked things that a local driver would already know. ‘Argh,’ the huge caravan master bawled, entirely too loudly for Arakasi’s liking. ‘Don’t know why any man would choose t’drink such piss.’ The man hefted the flask in one ham fist and squinted dubiously at the contents. ‘Tastes poisonous enough to sear out yer tongue.’ He ended his diatribe by taking another huge swallow. Arakasi saw another comradely slap coming, and braced his palms against the plank table barely in time. The blow struck him between the shoulder blades, and the trestle shook, rattling cheap clay crockery. ‘Hey!’ shouted the owner of the hostelry from behind the counter bar. ‘No brawling in here!’ The caravan master belched. ‘Stupid man,’ he confided in a spirit-laden whisper. ‘If we were of a mind to wreck things, we’d heave the tables through the walls and bring the stinkin’ roof down. Wouldn’t be losing much. There’s web-spinners in the rafters and biting bugs in the loft bedmats, anyway.’ Arakasi regarded the heavy lumber that made up the trestle’s construction, and conceded that it could serve as a battering ram. ‘Heavy enough to crack the gates to the City of Magicians,’ he murmured on a suggestive note. ‘Hah!’ The burly man slammed the flask down so hard the boards rattled. ‘Fool might try that. You heard about the boy who hid out in a wagon, last month? Well, I tell you, the servants of those magicians searched though the goods, and didn’t find the kid. But when the wain rolls through the arches of the gates nearside o’ the bridge to the island, well, this beam of light shoots down from the arch an’ fries the cover off the wool bale the boy was huddled in.’ The drover laughed and hit the table, causing the crockery to jump. ‘Seven hells! I tell you. The magicians’ servants are all running around yelling out a warning, shoutin’ death ’n’ destruction. Next we know, the boy’s ahowlin’ loud enough to be heard clear to Dustari, and then he’s sprintin’ down the road back into the forest like his butt’s on fire. Found him later, hiding out in a charcoal burner’s shed. Not a mark on him, mind, but it was days before he’d stop crying.’ The caravan master put his finger to his temple and winked knowingly. ‘They scrambled his head, you see. Thought he was being eaten by fire demons or some such.’ Arakasi digested this while the caravan master took another pull from the flask. He wiped his lips on his hairy wrist and peered at Mara’s Spy Master. His voice lowered to a tone of menace. ‘Don’t even joke about trying to cross the gate to the magician’s city. Mess with the Assembly, and all of us lose our jobs. I’ve got no wish to end my life as a slave, none at all.’ ‘But the boy who tried to sneak in as a prank did not lose his freedom,’ Arakasi pointed out. ‘Might as well have,’ the caravan master said morosely. He drank another draught. ‘Might as well have. He can’t sleep for getting nightmares, and days he walks around like one already dead – still got a scrambled head.’ Lowering his voice out of fear the caravan master said, ‘I hear they have ways of knowing what’s in the minds of those who try to come to the island. ’Cause it was this prankish lad, they let him live. But I’ve heard tales that if you mean them harm –’ he held his hand out, thumb turned down – ‘you find yourself at the bottom of that lake.’ Now whispering, he went on, ‘The lake bottom is covered with bodies. Too cold down there for them to bloat up and rise. The dead just stay down there.’ With a nod to affirm his statement, the caravan master concluded in normal tone, ‘Magicians don’t like to be messed with, there’s a fact.’ ‘Here’s to letting them be,’ Arakasi hooked back the flask and drank in an unusual fit of pique. The assignment Mara had set him was damned near impossible. Caravans traveled only as far as the gate to the river bridge. There, the crews surrendered their reins to servants from the inner city, and each load was vigorously searched before the goods rolled forward. The bridge did not go all the way across the lake, but ended in a water landing, where inbound supplies were offloaded into boats, and inspected a second time. Then polemen ferried them across, into the City of the Magicians. This was the third man to relate the fate of intruders: no one infiltrated the City of Magicians, and any who tried were transported magically to a watery grave or else driven mad. Confronted by a bleak conclusion, Arakasi sucked from the flask to fortify himself. Then he surrendered the remains of the liquor to the hairy caravan master, and slipped unobtrusively out to use the privy. In the stinking dimness of the road hostel’s privy, Arakasi studied the coarse board walls where passing caravan teams had scribbled or scratched a motley assortment of initials, derisive comments on the quality of the hostel’s beer, the names of favored ladies of the Reed Life left behind in bordellos to the south. Among them was the mark he sought, done in white chalk: a simple stick figure, standing. By the drawing’s knees was what looked to be a stray line, as if the artist’s hand had skipped a beat, in his haste. But seeing this, Arakasi closed tired eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. His agent, who happened to be a charcoal burner’s errand boy, had been by, and the news was good. The warehouse operation where he had nearly been netted by enemies had been out of the message network for two and half years and at long last the dyer across the street had promoted his eldest apprentice. The tradesman’s son who applied for the now vacant position would be an Acoma agent. At last Arakasi could begin to rebuild his network. The warehouse had been operating solely as a business since the disaster of his near capture. The proprietor had accepted his demotion from spy to business factor with stone-faced resignation. Both he and Arakasi were anxious to start laying off various staff members and stevedores, but this could not be done in too much haste; the men were valuable, some useful as agents in some better distant post, but not if the trade house was still under enemy scrutiny. And, judging by the smoothness of the net that had nearly caught him, Arakasi dared not assume otherwise. Slowly, painstakingly, he must come at the problem from another angle. An agent at the dyer who could observe who still watched the warehouse would tell him much. Abruptly aware that he must not spend overlong in the privy, he performed the expected ablutions and departed through the creaky wooden door. It occured to him, on unpleasant intuition, that the vacancy in the dyer’s shop might not be so fortuitous, after all. If he were that clever enemy, might he not be trying to set his own agent into the position? What better way to keep watch on the warehouse, after all, since loiterers and beggars on corners were far more conspicuous as plants. Chilled by cold certainty, for he believed his enemy to be as clever as himself, Arakasi cursed and spun around. Muttering as if he had forgotten something, he barged past the drover’s boy who crossed the yard toward the privy, and slammed back in through the door. ‘There it is, gods be praised,’ he muttered, as if misplacing important items in stinking public facilities were an everyday occurrence. With one hand he twisted a mother-of-pearl button off his cuff, and with the other he erased the head of the chalk figure and scratched an obscene mark beside it with his nail. He hurried out and, confronted by the furious boy whose errand he had interrupted, shrugged. He flashed the button in apology. ‘Luck charm from my sweetheart. She’d kill me if I lost it.’ The drover’s boy grimaced in sympathy and rushed on toward the privy; he’d had more of the hostel’s beer than was healthy, by the look of him. Arakasi waited until the door banged fully closed before he slipped off into the wood by the roadside. With any luck, the charcoal burner’s lad would happen by within the week. He would see the altered chalk mark, and the obscenity that signaled for an abort on the placement of the agent as dyer’s apprentice. As Arakasi moved soundlessly through tree needles, under an unseasonally grey sky, he ruminated that it might indeed be more profitable to have the lad who finally took the apprenticeship watched; if he was innocent of any duplicity, no harm would result, and if he was a double agent, as Arakasi’s intuition told him, he might lead back to his master … Later, Arakasi lay belly down in dripping bushes, shivering in the unaccustomed chill of northern latitudes. Light rain and a wind off the lake conspired to make him miserable. Yet he had spent hours here, on several different occasions. From this vantage point in the forest, on a jutting peninsula, he could observe both the bridge gate and the boat landing where servants loyal only to the magicians loaded inbound goods into skiffs and ferried them across to the city. He had long since concluded that a smuggled entry by way of the trade wagons was a doomed enterprise. The caravan master’s tale had only confirmed his suspicion that inbound goods were also surveyed by magical means for intruders. What he looked for now was a way to gain entrance to the city by stealth, avoiding the apparently all-seeing arch over the bridgeway. The isle lay too far across the water to swim over to it. From where Arakasi hid, its buildings appeared blended together into a mass of pointed towers, one of which was tall enough to pierce into the clouds. Through the ship’s glass he had bought from a shop on the seacoast, he could make out steep-walled houses and looping, arched walkways that cut through the air between. The lakeshore was crammed with stone-fronted buildings, oddly shaped windows, and strange arched doorways. There were no walls and, as far as he could tell, no sentries. That did not rule out defenses of arcane means; but plainly the only way an intruder might enter the city was a night crossing by boat, and then the scaling of some garden wall, or seeking some cranny to gain access. Arakasi sighed. The job was a thief’s work, and he needed a boat in a place where there were neither habitations nor fishing settlements. That meant smuggling one in on board a wagon, no easy task where inbound caravans were comprised of men who all knew one another intimately. Also, he would require a man trained in stealth, and such were not found in honest trades. Neither problem promised a fast or an easy solution. Mara would have a long wait for information that might, in all honesty, be impossible to acquire. Ever a practical man, Arakasi arose from his damp hollow and turned into the forest. He rubbed a crick in his neck, shook moisture from his clothing, and made his way back toward the road hostel. As he walked, he pondered deeply, a habit that more times than not had given rise to accurate intuition. He did not press the issue that immediately frustrated him, but pursued instead another problem, one that had not seemed significant at first, but was becoming an increasing aggravation. Try as he might, he could not seem to get a start at placing new agents in the Anasati household. Only one operative remained active, and that one was elderly, an old confidant of Jiro’s father’s that the young Lord had taken a dislike to. The servant had been relegated to a position of little importance, and what news he heard was only slightly more informative than street gossip. For the first time, Arakasi wondered whether his failed attempts to replace that agent might be significant beyond coincidence. They had appeared innocuous, certainly, each of seven tries foiled by what had seemed ill luck or poor timing: Jiro in a temper, a factor in too belligerent a mood to grant an old friend favors; and most lately, an illness of the stomach that prevented a trusted servant from making a recommendation for recruiting a newcomer. Arakasi stopped dead, unmindful of the rain, which had begun to fall much harder. He did not feel the cold and the wet that slid in droplets down his collar, but shivered instead from inspiration. He had been a fool, not to suspect sooner. But chance may not have been behind such a string of seemingly unrelated misfortunes. What if, all along, his attempts to infiltrate the Anasati household had been blocked by a mind more clever than his own? Chilled to the bone, Arakasi started forward. He had long admired the enemy’s First Adviser, Chumaka, whose flair for politics had benefited the Anasati since Jiro’s father’s time. Now Arakasi wondered whether it was Chumaka’s cleverness he fenced with, as unseen antagonist. The thought continued, inexorably: was it possible that an Anasati presence was behind the byplay at the silk warehouse? The elegance of this possibility appealed to Mara’s Spy Master. One gifted enemy made more sense than two unrelated foes with equal brilliance. Deeply disturbed, Arakasi hurried his step. He needed to get himself warm and dry, and to find a comfortable corner where he could think undisturbed. For each balked effort showed that he faced a rival equal to his best efforts. It was distressing to consider that a connection might exist between such a man and Mara’s gravest enemy, even more by the possibility that this rival might excede his talents. Getting a spy into the City of the Magicians was an impossible enterprise and its importance paled to insignificance before the threat posed to Mara’s spy network by Jiro’s adviser. For Arakasi had no illusions. His grasp of the Game of the Council was shrewd and to the point. More than a feud between two powerful families was at play here. Mara was a prominent figure in the Emperor’s court, and her fall could touch off civil war. • Chapter Six • Gambits (#ulink_af2ad2c8-57aa-5798-8606-d6f356200acf) Chumaka frowned. With increasing irritation, he scanned the reports stuffed between the sheafs of notes he had prepared for his master’s forthcoming court session. The news was none of it good. He raised a hand and chewed a fingernail, frustration making him savage. He had been so close to tracing the Spy Master behind the original Tuscai network! It had been predictable that the net in Ontoset would be shut down as a result of the bungling chase at the silk warehouse. But what made no sense at all was that after a passage of time approaching three years, the seemingly unrelated branch in Jamar should still be kept dormant as well. Those ruling houses who undertook the trouble and expense of spy nets tended to become addicted to them. It was simply inconceivable that any Lord grown accustomed to staying informed by covert means should suddenly, for the discovery of one courier, give up his hard-earned advantage. Lady Mara most of all; she was bold or cautious as circumstance dictated, but never one to be unreasonably fearful. The death of her son could not have changed her basic nature so radically. She could be depended upon to use every means at her disposal, and never be deterred by one minor setback. Chumaka flinched slightly as tender flesh tore under the worrying gnaw of his teeth. He blotted the bleeding hangnail on his robe and shuffled his papers into order in disturbed preoccupation. The situation bothered him. Each day Jiro was closer to demanding his answers outright. The First Adviser to House Anasati was loath to admit he was growing desperate. He had no choice but to consider the unthinkable: that this time he might have run up against an opponent who outmatched him. The idea rankled, that any mind in the Empire could outmaneuver Chumaka. Yet such a possibility could not be dismissed. In his gut he knew that the network was not disbanded, merely dormant or turned toward an unexpected quarter. But where? And why? Not knowing was costing Chumaka sleepless nights. Black circles and pouches under his eyes gave his already angular visage a careworn look. The scrape of oiled wood roused Chumaka from distressed reverie. Already servants were pulling aside the screens in the grand hall in preparation for Jiro’s public court. Omelo had the Lord’s honor guard in place beside the dais, and the hadonra was overseeing disposition of his factors and secretaries. Within minutes, those allies or houses seeking court with the Lord of the Anasati would be arriving, escorted to their places in order of rank. Lord Jiro would enter last, to hear petitioners, exchange social chat, and, sometimes, negotiate new business. Chumaka snapped the papers in his hand into a roll and stuffed them into his satchel. Muttering, he stalked to the dais to be sure his preferred cushions were arranged to his satisfaction. The list of Jiro’s guests was a long one, and this court could last into the evening. A skinny man with lanky bones, Chumaka liked plenty of padding under his rump through extended sessions. Physical aches he regarded as a distraction to his thinking, and with this rival Spy Master so far adept at eluding him, he could not afford to miss any nuance of what transpired. The grand hall slowly filled. Servants hurried in and out bringing refreshments and directing the placement of fan slaves. The day outside was hot, and Jiro’s subtle habit was to be sure his guests were cool and comfortable. He catered to them to extend their patience, and they, believing he spoiled them to win their favor, felt their egos stroked enough that they often granted him concessions more magnanimous than they had intended at the outset. Lord Jiro entered with little fanfare. His scribe called out his name, and only two warriors marched on either side, a half step behind their master. Today his clothes were simply cut, though sewn of the finest silk. He chose carriage and clothing that were rich but not ostentatious, and that could be interpreted as firm and manly, or boyishly innocent, depending on the advantage he wished to press. Chumaka regarded the ambivalent effect and stroked his chin, thinking: were Jiro not chosen by the gods to wear the Anasati mantle, he might have made a superb field agent. Then such frivolous speculation was cut short as the young master ascended the dais. His warriors flanked him as he took his place on his cushions and made formal pronouncement. ‘The court begins.’ Then, as his steward moved among the guests to announce the first on the roster, Jiro leaned over to confer in quiet tones with Chumaka. ‘What need I pay close attention to, this day, my First Adviser?’ Chumaka tapped his chin with a knuckle. ‘To endeavor to compromise the Xacatecas’ support of Lady Mara, we’ll need allies. More to the point, we’ll need their wealth. Consider the offer of the Lord of the Matawa to ship our grains to the South in exchange for certain concessions.’ He pulled the appropriate note from the many sheaves that jammed his satchel and swiftly scanned the lines. ‘The Lord wishes a favorable match for his daughter. Perhaps that bastard nephew of your cousin’s might suffice? He’s young, but not ill-favored. Marriage into a noble house would redirect his ambition and, down the line, provide us with another ally.’ Chumaka lowered his voice as others began to approach the dais. ‘Rumor has it that this Lord Matawa is trading with Midkemians from the city of LaMut.’ Jiro heard this with a look askance. ‘Rumor? Or the gleanings of one of your listeners?’ Chumaka cleared his throat, keeping this point deliberately ambiguous. ‘I remind my Lord that many of those involved in LaMutian merchant consortiums were born in Tsuranuanni, and they may provide us with the same advantage the Acoma enjoy in their exclusive trading concessions.’ He finished in a thick whisper, ‘Mara anticipated well when she got her dispensation from the Keeper of the Imperial Seal. She acted on an outside guess and tied up the obvious goods coming through the rift from Midkemia. But because she moved on the generalities of a wild hunch, she didn’t anticipate everything. There are a half-dozen items we can import that would make us rich, and while Mara might successfully block Anasati attempts to traffic goods from Midkemia, there’s little she can do to prevent the LaMutians from selling across the rift to the Lord of the Matawa.’ Jiro smiled. ‘How badly does Lord Matawa wish an exclusive shipping license? And how ugly is his daughter?’ Chumaka smiled broadly. ‘His daughter takes after a mother who looks like a dog, a particularly ill-aspected dog, in fact. There are two younger sisters also. Both of these have crooked teeth, and only the eldest can be given away with the title. Their father needs a bigger treasury if his youngest children are to escape the fate of becoming the consorts of low-born merchants. That means the Lord of the Matawa desires this trading concession very badly indeed.’ 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 slave 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. 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. When she had determined that a suitable interval had passed to remind him of his place, she asked, ‘Now, what may I do for you?’ The man did not miss nuance: that the Tsurani phrase was translated from the King’s Tongue. Mara’s clever opening informed him without undue fuss that she had arranged affairs with Midkemian traders before. He gave her back impeccable Tsurani protocol. ‘I am a modest broker in certain spices and delicacies, mistress. Given my history’ – he gestured broadly – ‘I am advantageously placed to know those products unique to my adopted homeland that would prove profitable in the Empire.’ Mara nodded, conceding his point. Janaio resumed in ingratiating fashion. ‘But rather than waste your valuable hours speaking, I would beg your indulgence to let my wares speak for themselves.’ Stirred to curiosity, Mara said, ‘What do you propose?’ Janaio indicated the various carry boxes and sacks at his elbow. ‘Here I have samples. As it is near the hour when many within the Empire cease activities to indulge in a cup of chocha, perhaps you would care for something more exotic?’ Unhappily reminded that Hokanu customarily shared such a moment to take refreshment with her, Mara repressed a sigh. She was tired, and in need of a nap, for the baby inside her interrupted her sleep at nights. ‘There is little time for this.’ ‘Please,’ Janaio said quickly. He bowed in attempt to ease her mind. ‘I will not keep you overlong. You will be rewarded, both in pleasure and in riches, I assure you.’ Jican bent close to his Lady. ‘Let me call for a food taster, mistress,’ he advised. Mara regarded her hadonra closely. He also was intrigued; but more, he had something else to tell about this mysterious trader from beyond the rift. She reached down and drew out the fan tucked behind her sash. Flipping it open and using it to hide her lips from her visitor, she whispered, ‘What else should I know of this man?’ Jican looked uncomfortable. ‘A suspicion,’ he murmured so that only she could hear. ‘I received word from a factor who is friendly to us. This Janaio has also made overtures to the Lord of the Matawa.’ ‘Who is a firm supporter of the traditionalists and Jiro.’ Mara fluttered her fan. ‘Do you think he hopes that our rivalry will help him to drive a tough bargain?’ The hadonra pursed his lips, thinking. ‘That I cannot say. It is possible. Should he have wares of unusual worth, the house that gains concessions will benefit greatly.’ That settled Mara’s mind on the matter. She must not allow the fatigue of pregnancy to cede any advantage to the Anasati uncontested. She clapped for her runner and dispatched him to the kitchens to fetch a cook who would serve her as taster. She also asked for Saric and Lujan, since further counsel might be required of them later. Janaio met her precautions with obsequious approval. ‘Most wise, Lady Mara. Though I assure you, my intentions are only honest.’ Mara crossed her hands over her middle without comment. No precautions were too stringent when she was so near to term with Hokanu’s child. She waited, unresponsive to Janaio’s attempts to make conversation, until her adviser arrived at her summons. Saric’s look of surprise as he entered revealed he had taken the man to be Midkemian, sporting Empire fashion. One glance at the Acoma First Adviser caused Janaio to straighten where he sat. As if his instincts warned that Saric’s insights were to be respected, he crisply listed his sureties. ‘For the sake of easing your worry, great Lady, since the foodstuffs I carry are so exotic that no one in this land will be familiar enough with their taste to detect any tampering, I propose that I share each cup with you.’ Unimpressed by gold chain and grand rhetoric, Saric met this pronouncement with a lack of expression. He watched intently as the trader made a display of pushing back his sleeves, to show that he wore no ring or bracelet, and that nothing was contained within his robe. ‘If you will have your servants prepare hot water, three pots, and cups from your own stores, I will provide the ingredients. Then you may choose which cup I am to taste and which you will.’ Smiling in the teeth of Saric’s quiet, he said, ‘If it please you, Lady, I will bear the risk equally.’ Intrigued in spite of her First Adviser’s reserve, Mara said, ‘What are you attempting to bring to our Empire?’ ‘Fine beverages, mistress. A wonderful assortment of flavors and pungent drinks that will astonish your palate. Should this venture prove profitable, and I assure you it will, then I will also bring exotic wines and ales to the Empire from the finest vintners and brewers in the Kingdom of the Isles.’ Mara weighed her impressions. No wonder this man had remained on Midkemia. He might have served as a house soldier before the final battle of the Riftwar, but he was a born merchant. She cast a sidelong glance as Lujan arrived and marched smartly to take his place behind her. If fate had cast him on the other side of the rift, given his glib tongue and facile mind, he might perhaps have been the one to sit here, selling exotic wares. The surmise was somehow reassuring. Still, it was not her nature to trust readily, particularly when Saric had given no word in favor of this stranger’s proposal. Mara chose to challenge the connection with her Anasati enemy. ‘What was your arrangement with the Lord of the Matawa?’ Janaio flashed her a grin in the manner of a born Midkemian. Where another Tsurani ruler might be put off by such openness, Mara had known Kevin too well to misunderstand; if anything, the foreign mannerism set her at ease. Janaio went on, ‘You heard about my talks, but I assure you they are no secret. The wares I carry are luxuries and need delicate handling and skillful negotiators to place them in the proper markets. I would be a poor merchant if I failed to examine all options. The Lord of the Matawa has sent many emissaries through the rift seeking to establish a brokerage.’ Mara’s lips thinned as she pondered the implications of this. Jican whispered something to Saric, who nodded and quietly touched her arm. ‘My Lady, we know that the Matawa wish to make inroads in your trade market. They cannot disturb your imperial patent that gives you exclusive license for certain items, but they hope to become a rival presence to lure any nonexclusive trade they can wean away from our factors. They could legally establish exclusive trade rights beyond the rift, where we have no control. Arakasi’s report holds that funding for the venture might well come from Jiro.’ Sick that politics should increasingly come to drive even the most innocuous of ventures, Mara inclined her head to Janaio. ‘Send for what you need.’ Her servants were devotedly efficient. Proud to uphold their Lady’s honor, they swiftly brought in trays with several pots and porcelain cups. A slave hurried after, bearing a kettle of steaming water. Janaio set out his various packets and vials with a theatrical flourish. ‘First,’ he announced, ‘something pungent and savory.’ He poured water into one of the small pots and dropped in a small pouch. ‘This delicacy grows on a shrub in the southern part of the Kingdom, mistress. The leaves are costly to dry and ship, and because they are susceptible to mold, only the very wealthy can afford to buy the small supply that reaches the northern lands. For this reason, the drink I prepare has not gained much popularity in my city of LaMut. Once you have tasted, I think you must agree that this is likely due to lack of familiarity.’ He raised the top of the pot, sniffed at the steam, and closed his eyes. ‘I believe you will concur that this fine beverage will find approval from Tsurani nobles of taste.’ With this, he poured, filling the room with an exotic, spicy scent. When three cups were full, he nodded to Mara’s servant, who lifted the tray and bore it to the dais for the Lady to choose her preference. She motioned for the slave who had carried the pot to taste one. The servant handed her one of the pair that remained, and bore the tray back to Janaio. The merchant lifted his cup, saying, ‘Sip cautiously, lest you scald your tongue, mistress.’ The alien aroma fascinated Mara. Unlike anything else she had known, she found it wildly enticing. She sipped the brew. The first taste was acrid and strange, yet bracing and flavorful. She considered a moment, then said, ‘I suspect a little honey would cut the bitterness.’ The trader smiled. ‘You skip ahead of me, Good Servant. In Midkemia we also use white sugar made from a plant called beets. Some folk prefer a dash of milk; yet others, the juice of a tart fruit similar to the Kelewanese ketundi.’ Mara sipped again and found her appreciation increasing. ‘What do you call this?’ The man smiled. ‘It is tea, Good Servant.’ Mara laughed. ‘Many things are called “tea,” Janaio of LaMut. What is the herb you have brewed?’ The merchant gave back a Tsurani shrug. ‘That is the name of the herb, or rather the leaves of the shrub. When someone in LaMut says “tea,” this is what they speak of, not the blends of plantstuffs steeped in hot water you drink here. Yet of this delicacy there are a multitude of varieties as well, robust, subtle, sweet, and bitter. One selects to suit the occasion.’ Now fascinated, Mara nodded. ‘What else?’ Janaio selected another pot from the Acoma supply and prepared a second hot beverage. ‘This is a far different drink.’ A black liquid that smelled rich and heady was presently handed to Mara. This time, Jican supplanted her taster, his excitement overcoming caution. Mara could barely wait for her hadonra to try his share before she sipped at her sample. The drink was bitter and yet piquant. ‘What do you call this? It reminds me vaguely of chocha.’ Janaio bowed at her evident pleasure. ‘This is coffee, mistress. And like the tea, it has a thousand different cousins. This you drink grows on plants high upon the hillsides of Yabon. Good, robust, but hardly a delicacy.’ He clapped, and one of his servants brought forth another basket, smaller, and tied with festive ribbons. ‘Let me offer a gift. Here are a dozen samples for you to consume at your leisure. Each is clearly labeled as to the type of bean used to make the drink and instructions for preparation.’ Mara set aside her half-empty cup. While this sampling was diverting her from her troubled marriage, the day was waning while she tarried. She was reluctant to forgo the hour she always spent with her son while he took his supper. Justin was recently five years of age, too young to understand delays. Sensing her impatience, Janaio raised a hand in appeal. ‘The most astonishing drink remains yet to be sampled.’ Quickly, before the Lady could rise and take her leave, he asked her servant, ‘Please, may I have needra milk?’ Mara might have taken issue at this man’s presumption, except that Midkemians could be expected to act impetuously. She hid her tiredness and motioned for the servant to run the requested errand. In the interval, Saric bent close to his Lady’s ear. ‘Don’t miss the subtleties,’ he advised. ‘This man was Tsurani-born. He apes Midkemian brashness, almost as if he knows that you had a fondness, once, for such behavior. I do not like the smoothness of this play upon your sympathies, my Lady. You will be cautious, please?’ Mara tipped her fan against her chin. Her adviser was right to wish restraint. ‘This Janaio drinks from the same pot as I. Surely there will be no harm in enduring one more sample. After that the interview will be ended.’ Saric returned a half nod, but a glance exchanged with Jican caused the little hadonra to pause. When the servant returned with a small pitcher of milk, Jican suggested that he also would like a cup to taste, separate from the slave that would continue to perform his office. ‘But of course,’ Janaio agreed in pleasant tones. ‘You are a shrewd man, who wishes to understand every nuance of the trade your house may undertake.’ While Mara’s councilors looked on in wonderment, the trader poured equal portions of milk and hot water into the final pot. His chain sparkled as he leaned toward his basket, speaking all the while. ‘Occasionally, you may wish to use only milk, as it gives added richness to this drink.’ His preparations were completed with yet more flourish than before. Again he passed the tray of filled cups to the servant, indicating Mara should choose hers first. She did not, but waited until Jican and the taster had selected. The smell of this drink was intoxicating. The little hadonra shed his anxiety and sipped. He recoiled with a smothered yelp as he burned his tongue. The trader had the grace not to laugh. ‘My apologies, my Lady. I should have thought to warn: this drink is served very hot.’ Jican recovered his aplomb. ‘My Lady,’ he said excitedly, ‘the taste of this rarity is incredible.’ Both hadonra and Lady looked at the slave who served as taster. More careful than Jican, he had not burned his tongue, and he was slurping the drink with such evident relish that Mara motioned for the servant to pass her the tray. As she chose from the last two cups, Janaio said, ‘If coffee reminds you of chocha, then this wonder may remind you of the chocha-la you make for your children. But I humbly submit, that chocha-la is to chocolate as my humble station is to your grandeur.’ Mara sipped and closed her eyes at the marvelous taste. Unable to hide her surprise and pleasure, she sighed in pure happiness. Grinning, Janaio accepted the last cup from the tray and drank deep. ‘This is chocolate, mistress.’ Unable to help herself, Mara thought of Kevin, who had commented on more than one occasion that he missed the chocolate sweets of festivals in his homeworld. At last she understood. Blinking back the moisture that gathered in her eyes, and passing off the indiscretion as if she avoided steam from the cup, Mara said, ‘This is a wonderful thing.’ Janaio set aside his emptied cup and bowed. ‘I wish permission to be granted exclusive license to import, mistress.’ Mara shook her head with open regret. ‘I cannot grant that, Janaio of LaMut. My patent from the Imperial Government is limited to certain items.’ Obviously disappointed, the trader gestured expansively. ‘Then perhaps a trading agreement. If exclusivity is beyond your means, then at least let me broker through the mightiest trading house in the Empire.’ Mara drank more of the delightful liquid, recalled to caution at last. ‘What of the Matawa?’ Janaio gave a deprecating cough. ‘Their offer was insulting, no, demeaning, and they lack the experienced factors you have in your employ. They require interpreters, still, to transact business, an uneasy situation for one in the luxury market, as I am. I desire no avenue that is ripe for misunderstanding, or even the outside chance of exploitation.’ Savoring the dregs of her drink, Mara said, ‘That much I can grant.’ Regret tinged her tone as she added, ‘I can’t limit others in bringing these beverages to us, but perhaps some shrewd buying in LaMut might hamper others from competing effectively against our interests.’ Then, content to entrust the disposition of final details to Jican, she prepared to take her leave. The trader bowed, touching his forehead to the ground. ‘Mistress, your wisdom is legendary.’ Mara stood up. ‘When we are both made rich from the importation of chocolate to our Empire, then I will accept the compliment. But now other matters require my presence. Jican will draw up the documents sealing the partnership you request.’ While servants hurried in to collect the dirtied cups, and Jican’s brow furrowed as he confronted the intricate issues of trade, Mara left the room, helped by Lujan and Saric. Outside, screened from view by the gloom of an inner corridor, Saric turned a sour eye on his mistress. ‘You took grave risks, my Lady. Any trader from Midkemia who was originally Tsurani-born could once have been sworn to the Minwanabi.’ Left short-tempered from missing her rest, Mara answered tartly. ‘You all saw. He drank equal portion.’ Then she softened. ‘And those rare drinks have made me feel wonderful.’ Saric bowed, his silence indicative of displeasure. Mara moved on toward the nursery, where, even one wing distant, enraged yells could be heard from Justin. Her sigh turned into a laugh. ‘I am late, and the servants plainly have their hands fall.’ She laid a hand on her uncomfortably swollen middle. ‘I am anxious for this baby to get himself born, though with another, there will none of us get any peace.’ She headed in the direction of Justin’s ruckus with a girlish smile. ‘I may well come to miss being pampered when once again I must sit without the aid of two healthy young men.’ Lujan grinned in sly appreciation, his expression mirrored by Saric. ‘Hokanu will do his best, I am sure, to keep you with child indefinitely.’ Mara laughed, the bitter undertone not missed by her councilors. ‘He will, I am sure, if we can be made to agree that Justin should be the Acoma heir.’ ‘Stubborn,’ Saric mouthed to his cousin over his Lady’s bent head. Past nightfall, the trader called Janaio of LaMut returned with his retinue of hired Midkemian guards to a deserted warehouse in the city of Sulan-Qu. The hour was late. The wicks in the lamps in the rich quarter had burned down, while in the crumbling tenements near the riverside only the setting quarter moon cast any light. The streets lay under inky darkness, wreathed with mist off the Gagajin. Where once the disreputable population of the city had preyed as they pleased on what traffic dared to move abroad without guard, now the Emperor’s patrols drove Kentosani’s malcontents and vagrants into the deepest back alleys. The only skulkers in the open were the mongrel dogs, scavenging garbage from the markets. Though calm by the standards of Tsuranuanni, to Midkemian ears the city was far from peaceful. Even from inside the warehouse, the shouts of a madam of the Reed Life could be heard insulting a client who had been rough with one of her girls. Dogs barked, and a wakeful jigabird crowed. Somewhere nearby, an infant wailed. The mercenaries hired to attend Janaio’s retinue shifted uneasily, the dank mud of the river flats an alien smell in their nostrils. They did not know why they had been brought to this empty, half-rotted building; nor did they understand precisely why they had been paid to cross the rift. Their employer had interviewed them carefully and required that they speak no Tsurani. But work in the Kingdom had slowed since the battle at Sethanon, and for men with few ties to home, the offered money had been good. The bearers put down their bundles and waited for orders, while the bodyguards maintained their formation behind Janaio. Without sound, silk cords with weighted ends suddenly coiled down from the rafters. They caught and whipped tight, each encircling the throat of an unwary barbarian soldier. Assassins in black followed, leaping from their unseen perches and using their weight and momentum to jerk the guards off their feet. Four men’s necks snapped instantly, while the others hung kicking and gagging as they were hoisted and slowly strangled. The bearers watched in horror as the Midkemian mercenaries died. Wide-eyed, frozen in terror, they knew better than to dare raise an outcry. Their fear was short-lived. Two more black-clad assassins flitted out of the shadows and moved through their unarmed ranks like wind through standing rushes. In less than a minute, Janaio’s ten bearers lay dead, blood from their slashed throats pattering on the wood floor. The assassins who held the armed guards aloft released their cords. Dead Midkemians thumped in sprawled heaps, here one with his knuckles crumpled under his hip, and another there with his bitten-through tongue oozing blood through his beard. Janaio removed his rich clothing and tossed it amid the corpses. One of the black-clad assassins bowed to him and offered a small bag. From this Janaio withdrew a dark robe and cast it over his shoulders. Quickly he took a vial from his pocket and lathered sweet-smelling ointment upon his hands. The grease dissolved a layer of concealing paint; were there more light, the red dye and tattoo of a Hamoi assassin would now be revealed. From the thickest gloom of a corner a deep voice said, ‘Is it done?’ The man who was no trader, who called himself Janaio for convenience, bowed his head. ‘As you commanded, honored master.’ A heavyset man with a too-light tread stepped from concealment. His person clicked and clinked as he moved, as bone ornaments dangling from leather thongs jostled against the instruments of death he wore affixed to his belt. His robe was studded with bosses cut from the skulls of victims; his sandals had straps of cured human flesh. He cast no glance at the bodies littering the floor, though he disdained to step in the puddles. The Obajan of the Hamoi Tong nodded, the scalplock that hung from his otherwise shaved head twisting down his back. ‘Good.’ He raised a hugely muscled arm and plucked a vial from the breast of his robe. ‘You are certain she drank?’ ‘As did I, master.’ The erstwhile trader bowed low yet again. ‘I placed the potion in the chocolate, knowing that drink to be the most irresistible. Her hadonra escaped, by luck of a burned tongue. But the Lady drank hers to the dregs. She swallowed enough slow poison to kill three men.’ This speech ended, the assassin licked his lips. Anxious, sweating, he controlled his nerves and waited. The Obajan rolled the vial containing the antidote for the rare poison mixed with the chocolate between his thick palms. He watched with stony gaze as the eyes of his minion followed it; but the afflicted held in his desperation. He did not crack, and beg. The Obajan’s lips parted in a smile. ‘You did well.’ He surrendered the vial, which was colored green, symbol of life. The man who had called himself Janaio of LaMut took the promise of reprieve in shaking hands, snapped off the wax seal, and drank the bitter draft down. Then he smiled also. A second later, his expression froze. Fear touched him, and what at first appeared to be a spasm of uncertainty. His eyes widened as pain stabbed through his abdomen, and he glanced down at the emptied vial. Then his fingers lost their grip. The container with its false offer of life dropped and his knees wobbled. A groan escaped his lips. He fell to the floor, doubled over. ‘Why?’ His voice emerged as a croak, pinched between spasms of agony. The Obajan’s reply was very soft. ‘Because she has seen your face, Kolos, as have her advisers. And because it suits the needs of the Hamoi. You die with honor, serving the tong. Turakamu will welcome you to his halls with a great feast, and you will return to the Wheel of Life in a higher station.’ The betrayed man fought his need to thrash in agony. Dispassionately the Obajan observed, ‘The pain will pass quickly. Even now life is departing.’ Beseeching, the dying man rolled his eyes up to seek the other’s face in the darkness. He fought a strangled, gasping breath. ‘But … Father …’ The Obajan knelt and laid a red-stained hand upon the forehead of his son. ‘You honor your family, Kolos. You honor me.’ The sweating flesh under his touch shuddered once, twice, and fell limp. Over the stink as the bowel muscles loosened in death, the Obajan stood up and sighed. ‘Besides, I have other sons.’ The master of the Hamoi Tong signaled, and his black-clad guard closed around him. Swiftly, silently, they slipped from the warehouse at his order, leaving the dead where they lay. Alone amid the carnage, unseen by living eyes, the Obajan took a small bit of parchment from his robe and cast it at the feet of his murdered son. The gold chain on the corpse would draw the notice of scavengers; the bodies would be found and pilfered, and the paper would surface in later investigation. As the tong chief turned on his heel to leave, the red-and-yellow chop of House Anasati fluttered down onto floorboards sticky with new blood. The first pain touched Mara just before dawn. She awoke curled into a ball and stifled a small cry. Hokanu jerked out of sleep beside her. His hands found her instantly in concerned comfort. ‘Are you all right?’ The discomfort passed. Mara levered herself up on one arm and waited. Nothing happened. ‘A cramp. Nothing more. I am sorry to have disturbed you.’ Hokanu looked at his wife through the predawn greyness. He stroked back her tangled hair, the smile that had been absent for so many weeks lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘The baby?’ Mara laughed for joy and relief. ‘I think. Perhaps he kicked while I slept. He is vigorous.’ Hokanu let his hand slide across her forehead and down her cheek, then softly let it rest on her shoulder. He frowned. ‘You feel chilled.’ Mara shrugged. ‘A little.’ His worry deepened. ‘But the morning is warm.’ He brushed her temple again. ‘And your head is soaked in perspiration.’ ‘It is nothing,’ Mara said quickly. ‘I will be all right.’ She closed her eyes, wondering uneasily whether the alien drinks she had sampled the evening before might have left her indisposed. Hokanu sensed her hesitation. ‘Let me call the healer to see to you.’ The idea of a servant’s intrusion upon the first moment of intimacy she had shared with Hokanu in weeks rankled Mara. ‘I’ve had babies before, husband.’ She strove to soften her sharpness. ‘I am fine.’ Yet she had no appetite at breakfast. Aware of Hokanu’s eyes on her, she made light conversation and ignored the burning tingle that, for a moment, coursed like a flash fire down her leg. She had pinched a nerve from sitting, she insisted to herself. The slave who had served as her taster seemed healthy as he carried out the trays, and when Jican arrived with his slates, she buried herself in trade reports, grateful, finally, that the mishap over the cramp before dawn seemed to have banished Hokanu’s distance. He checked in on her twice, as he donned his armor for his morning spar with Lujan and again as he returned for his bath. Three hours later, the pain began in earnest. The healers hurried to attend the Lady as she was carried, gasping, to her bed. Hokanu left a half-written letter to his father to rush to her side. He stayed, his hand twined with hers, and flawlessly kept his composure, that his fear not add to her distress. But herbal remedies and massage gave no relief. Mara’s body contorted in spasms, wringing wet from the cramps and pains. The healer with his hands on her abdomen nodded gravely to his helper. ‘It is time?’ Hokanu asked. He received a wordless affirmative as the healer continued his ministrations, and the assistant whirled to send Mara’s runner flying to summon the midwife. ‘But so early?’ Hokanu demanded. ‘Are you sure nothing is amiss?’ The healer glanced up in harried exasperation. His bow was a perfunctory nod. ‘It happens, Lord Consort. Now, please, leave your Lady to her labor, and send in her maids. They will know better than you what she needs for her comfort. If you cannot stay still or find a diversion, you may ask the cooks to prepare hot water.’ Hokanu ignored the healer’s orders. He bent over, kissed his wife’s cheek, and murmured in her ear, ‘My brave Lady, the gods must surely know how I treasure you. They will keep you safe, and make your labor light, or heaven will answer to me for their failing. My mother always said that babes of Shinzawai blood were in a great rush to be born. This one of ours seems no different.’ Mara returned his kindness with a squeeze of her hand, before his fingers were torn from hers by servants who, at the healer’s barked directive, firmly pushed the consort of the Acoma out of his own quarters. Hokanu watched his wife to the last instant as the screens were dragged closed. Then, abandoned to himself in the hallway, he considered calling for wine. He instantly changed his mind as he recalled Mara’s telling him once that her brutish first husband had drunk himself into a stupor upon the occasion of Ayaki’s birth. Nacoya had needed to slap the oaf sober to deliver the happy news of a son. Celebration was called for, certainly, but Hokanu would not cause Mara an instant of unhappy memory by arriving at her side with the smell of spirits on his breath. So he paced, unable to think of any appropriate diversion. He could not help listening avidly, to identify each noise that emerged from behind the closed screens. The rush of hurried steps told him nothing, and he worried, by the quiet, what Mara might be enduring. He cursed to himself and raged inwardly that the mysteries of childbirth held no place for him. Then his lips twitched in a half-smile as he decided that this ugly, twisting frustration of not knowing must be very near what a wife felt when her husband charged off into battle. In time, his vigil was disrupted as Lujan, Saric, Incomo, and Keyoke, arrived in a group from the great hall, where Mara had not appeared for morning council. One look at Hokanu’s distraught manner, and Incomo grasped what no servant had taken time to inform them of. ‘How is Lady Mara?’ he asked. Hokanu said, ‘They say the baby is coming.’ Keyoke’s face went wooden to mask worry, and Lujan shook his head. ‘It is early.’ ‘But these things happen,’ Incomo hastened to reassure. ‘Babies do not birth by any fast rule. My eldest boy was born at eight months. He grew healthy and strong, and never seemed the worse.’ But Saric stayed too still. He did not intervene with his usual quip to lighten the mood when the others grew edgy with concern. He watched Hokanu with dark careful eyes, and said nothing at all, his thoughts brooding darkly upon the trader who had worn fine gold as if it were worthless. Hours went by. Neglected duty did not call Mara’s councilors from their wait. They held together, retiring in unstated support of Hokanu to the pleasant chamber set aside for the Lady’s meditation. Occasionally Keyoke or Lujan would dispatch a servant with an order for the garrison, or messages would come from Jican for Saric to answer, but as the day grew hot, and servants brought the noon meal at Hokanu’s request, none seemed eager to eat. News of Mara’s condition did not improve, and as the afternoon wore on toward evening, even Incomo ran out of platitudes. Fact could no longer be denied: Mara’s labor was proving very difficult. Several times low groans and cries echoed down the hallway, but more often Mara’s loved ones heard only silence. Servants came in careful quiet and lit the lamps at evening. Jican arrived, chalk dust unscrubbed from his hands, belatedly admitting that there remained no more account scrolls to balance. Hokanu was about to offer companionable sympathy when Mara’s scream cut the air like a blade. He tensed, then spun without a word and sprinted off down the corridor. The entrance to his Lady’s chamber lay half opened; had it not, he would have smashed the screen. Beyond, lit to clarity by the brilliance of lamps, two midwives held his wife as she convulsed. The fine white skin of her wrists and shoulders was reddened from hours of such torment. Hokanu dragged a sick breath of fear. He saw the healer bent on his knees at the foot of the sleeping pallet, his hands running red with her blood. Panic jolted him from concentration as he glanced up to ask his assistant for cold rags, and he saw who stood above him in the room. ‘Master, you should not be here!’ ‘I will be no place else,’ Hokanu cracked back in the tone he would have used to order troops. ‘Explain what has gone amiss. At once!’ ‘I …’ The healer hesitated, then abandoned attempt at speech as the Lady’s body arched up in what seemed a spasm of agony. Hokanu raced at once to Mara. He shouldered a straining midwife aside, caught her twisting, thrashing wrist, and bent his face over hers. ‘I am here. Be at peace. All will be well, my life as surety.’ She wrenched out a nod between spasms. Her features were contorted in pain, the flesh ashen and running with perspiration. Hokanu held her eyes with his own, as much to reassure her as to keep from acknowledging damage he could do nothing about. The healer and midwives must be trusted to do their jobs, though his beloved Lady seemed awash in her own blood. The bedclothes pushed up around her groin were soaked in crimson. Hokanu had seen but had not yet permitted himself to admit the presence of what the sobbing servants had been too slow to cover up: the tiny blue figure that lay limp as rags near her feet. If it had ever been a child, it was now only a torn bit of flesh, kicked and bruised and lifeless. Anger coursed through him, that no one had dared to tell him when it happened, that his son, and Mara’s, was born dead. The spasm passed. Mara fell limp in his grasp, and he tenderly gathered her into his arms. She was so depleted that she lay there, eyes closed, gasping for breath and beyond hearing. Swallowing pain like a hot coal, Hokanu turned baleful eyes toward the healer. ‘My wife?’ The servant quietly shook his head. In a whisper, he said, ‘Send your fastest runner to Sulan-Qu, my Lord. Seek a priest of Hantukama, for’ – sorrow slowed him as he ended – ‘there is nothing more I can do. Your wife is dying.’ • Chapter Seven • Culprit (#ulink_16cbc74e-0572-58e2-bb30-6b54edd33fd0) The runner swerved. Only half mindful of the fact that he had narrowly missed being run down, Arakasi stopped cold in the roadway. The sun stood high overhead, too close to noon for an Acoma messenger to be moving in such haste unless his errand was urgent. Arakasi frowned as he recalled the courier’s grim expression. Fast as reflex, the Spy Master spun and sprinted back in the direction of Sulan-Qu. He was fleet of foot, and dressed as a small-time merchant’s errand runner. Still it took him several minutes to overtake the runner, and at his frantic question the man did not break stride. ‘Yes, I carry messages from House Acoma,’ the runner answered. ‘Their content is not your business.’ Fighting the heat, the dusty, uneven footing, and the effort it took to flank a man who did not wish to be delayed, Arakasi held his ground. He studied the runner’s narrow eyes, full nose, and large chin and out of memory sought the man’s name. ‘Hubaxachi,’ he said after a pause. ‘As Mara’s faithful servant, it is certainly my business to know what need sends you racing for Sulan-Qu at high noon. The Lady does not ask her runners to risk heat stroke on a whim. It follows that something is wrong.’ The runner looked over in surprise. He identified Arakasi as one of Mara’s senior advisers, and at last slowed to a jog. ‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘How could I recognise you in that costume? Aren’t those the colors of the Keschai’s traders’ association?’ ‘Never mind that,’ Arakasi snapped, short of both wind and temper. He tore off the headband that had misled the servant. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’ ‘It’s the mistress,’ gasped the runner. ‘She’s had a bad childbirth. Her son did not survive.’ He seemed to gather himself before speaking the next line. ‘She’s bleeding, dangerously. I am sent to find a priest of Hantukama.’ ‘Goddess of Mercy!’ Arakasi almost shouted. He spun and continued at a flat run toward the Acoma estate house. The headband that had completed his disguise fluttered, forgotten, in his fist. If the Lady’s fleetest runner had been sent to fetch a priest of Hantukama, that could only mean Mara was dying. Breezes stirred the curtains, and servants walked on silent feet. Seated by Mara’s bedside, his face an impassive mask to hide his anguish, Hokanu wished he could be facing the swords of a thousand enemies rather than relying upon hope, prayer, and the uncertain vagaries of healers. He could not think of the stillborn child, its lifeless blue form racked in death. The babe was lost, gone to Turakamu without having drawn breath. The Lady lived yet, but barely. Her face was porcelain-pale, and the wraps and cold compresses the midwives used to try to lessen her bleeding seemed of little avail. The slow, scarlet seep continued, inexorably. Hokanu had seen fatal wounds on the battlefield that bothered him less than the creeping, insidious stain that renewed itself each time the dressings were changed. He bit his lip in quiet desperation, unaware of the sunlight outside, or the everyday horn calls of the dispatch barge that brought news from Kentosani. ‘Mara,’ Hokanu whispered softly, ‘forgive my stubborn heart.’ Though not a deeply religious man, he held with the temple belief that the wal, the inner spirit, would hear and record what the ears and the conscious mind could not. He spoke as though Mara were aware and listening, and not statue-still in a coma on the bed. ‘You are the last Acoma, Lady, all because I would not yield to your request to swear Justin in as your heir. Now I regret my selfishness, and my unwillingness to concede the danger to the Acoma name.’ Here Hokanu paused to master the unsteadiness in his voice. ‘I, who love you, could not conceive of an enemy who would dare reach past me to strike you down. I did not allow for nature herself, or for the perils of childbirth.’ Mara’s lashes did not stir. Her mouth did not tremble or smile, and even the frown between her brows was absent. Hokanu fingered her dark, loose hair, spread over the silken pillows, and battled an urge to weep. ‘I speak formally,’ he added, and now his voice betrayed him. ‘Live, my strong, beautiful Lady. Live, that you might swear in a new heir for the Acoma over your family natami. Hear me, beloved wife. I do this moment release Kevin’s son, Justin, from his obligations to House Shinzawai. He is yours, to make strong the Acoma name and heritage. Live, my Lady, and together we will make other sons for the future of both our houses.’ Mara’s eyes did not open to the light of her victory. Limp beneath the coverlet, she did not stir as her husband bowed his head and at last lost his battle to hold his tears. Neither did she start at a near-silent step and a voice like silk that said, ‘But she does have an enemy who would strike her down, and the child in her womb as well, in cold blood.’ Hokanu coiled like a spring and turned to confront a shadowy presence: Arakasi, recently arrived from the message barge, his eyes impenetrable as onyx. ‘What are you talking about?’ Hokanu’s tone was edged like a blade. He took in Arakasi’s dusty, exhausted, sweating appearance, and the rust-and-blue headband still clenched in a hand that shook. ‘Is there more to this than a bad miscarriage?’ The Spy Master seemed to gather himself. Then, without flinching, he delivered the news. ‘Jican told me as I came in. Mara’s poison taster did not awaken from his afternoon nap. The healer saw him and says he appears to be in a coma.’ For an instant Hokanu seemed a man made of glass, his every vulnerability evident. Then the muscles in his jaw jerked taut. He spoke, his voice unyielding as barbarian iron. ‘You suggest my wife was poisoned?’ Now it was Arakasi who could not speak. The sight of Mara lying helpless had unmanned him, and he could only mutely nod. Hokanu’s face went white, but every inch of him was composed as he whispered, ‘There was a spice dealer from beyond the rift who came yesterday, offering Mara trade concessions on exotic drinks brewed from luxury herbs and ground plantstuffs from Midkemia.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/janny-wurts/mistress-of-the-empire/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.