Servant of the Empire (23 page)

As she stepped outside, the sudden reentry into sunlight dazzled her. Mara squinted against the glare while her eyes adjusted. She made out the presence of two officers’ plumes among the slaves who awaited with her litter. One was Xaltchi, a junior officer recently promoted by Keyoke for his valour in defence of a caravan. The other, with a longer, more sumptuous plume, could only be Lujan. Surprised that he should be bearing the message, and not a lesser servant or
her runner slave, Mara frowned. Whatever news awaited her would not be a matter for ears that could not be trusted. She dismissed her cho-ja escort with absentminded politeness, and hurried toward her Strike Leader, who had seen her emerge from the hive and who strode briskly to meet her.

‘My Lady.’ Lujan completed a hasty if proper bow, then took her arm and guided her through the traffic of cho-ja workers streaming to and from the hive. The instant they reached open ground, but well before they came within earshot of the slaves within the litter, Lujan said, ‘Lady, you have a visitor. Jiro of the Anasati is currently in Sulan-Qu, awaiting your word. His father, Tecuma, has sent him to discuss a matter too sensitive to entrust to a common messenger.’

Mara’s frown deepened. ‘Go back and send a runner to town,’ she instructed her Strike Leader. ‘I will see Jiro at once.’

Lujan saw her to her litter, helped her inside, and bowed. Then he was off at a run down the lane that led back to the estate house. The bearers shouldered the Lady’s litter and Xaltchi mustered the small company of soldiers who marched as her escort. More slowly, the cortege followed in Lujan’s footsteps.

‘Pick up the pace,’ Mara commanded through the curtains. She fought to keep the concern from her voice. Before her marriage to Buntokapi of the Anasati, that ancient house had been second behind only the Minwanabi among Acoma enemies. Since she had engineered her husband’s death, the family had more cause than ever to hate her. Only the common interest of Ayaki, son of Bunto and grandson of Lord Tecuma, kept the two houses from open conflict. The thread that held that alliance together was slender indeed. For very little excuse, Tecuma might wish her out of the way, so that he could install himself as
regent of the Acoma until Ayaki came of age to assume the title of Lord.

A matter too sensitive for even a bonded messenger was unlikely to be good news. A familiar tightness clutched Mara’s middle. She had never underestimated her enemies’ ability to plot, but lately a lack of any overt threat had caused her to come dangerously close to complacence. Mentally she readied herself for a difficult interview; she would need five hundred warriors armoured and at the ready, and an honour guard of twelve within the hall where she received Jiro. Any less would offer him insult.

Mara settled her head against the cushions, sweating in her thin silks. Maddeningly, endlessly, between planning what her life might depend on, she thought of a barbarian slave, who at this moment stood in hot sunlight directing men cutting timber into fencing, six rails to a span, and shoulder-high to a tall warrior. The needra fields were nearly finished, too late for this season’s calves, but well in time to fatten the weanlings for the late-fall markets. Mara blotted her brow in fussy annoyance. She had enough on her mind without adding the question of what she was going to do with Kevin when the new pastures were finished. Perhaps she would sell the man … But her mind dwelt on this idea only a moment before she resolved that some other task must be found to keep him away.

Mara took her place beside the entrance to the estate house, while Jiro’s litter and escort approached the Acoma borders. Her First Adviser stood at her side, looking uncomfortable beneath sumptuous fine robes and jewels. Although Nacoya enjoyed the authority inherited with her promotion, in some things she outspokenly preferred the duties of a nurse. State dress was one of them. Had Mara been less nervous, she might have smiled at the thought of the elderly servant resenting the fussing and attentions of maids that Mara had
been forced to endure life long, at Nacoya’s tireless instigation. The only surcease the Acoma daughter had known had been during her novitiate in the temple of Lashima. Those days, with their tranquil simplicity and hours of scholarly study, seemed far behind her now.

Mara glanced about her to be sure all was in readiness. Amid the clutter of footmen, soldiers, and servants, she noted one person missing. ‘Where’s Jican?’ she whispered to Nacoya.

The First Adviser inclined her head, forced to raise a hand to rescue a loosened hairpin. She reset the errant finery with an impatience that had much to do with being awakened from a nap for the purpose of greeting a personage still regarded with venom. Nacoya’s dislike of Buntokapi extended to all his relations, and though Mara knew she could rely on the ancient woman to maintain perfect protocol, the household was likely to suffer several days of grouchy aftermath.

‘Your hadonra is in the kitchens, making sure the cooks slice only first-quality fruit for the refreshment trays,’ the former nurse answered tersely.

Mara raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s more of an old lady than you are. As if the cook needs to be told how to prepare a meal. He would do no less than his best for the sake of Acoma honour.’

Nacoya whispered, ‘I told Jican to supervise. The cooks might wish to slip an Anasati guest something less than appetizing – their view of honour is different from yours, daughter.’ Buntokapi had not made himself popular in the kitchen, either. Still, Mara kept to herself the thought that even the Acoma chief cook would not shame her house for something as petty as slipping sour fruit to Jiro – no matter how much he would have enjoyed doing so.

Mara glanced at Nacoya. Silently she considered how easily she had come to regard her house servants as part of
the furnishings. That they had actively resented Bunto’s brutality as much as she had never occurred to her; she remembered how rough he had been on them. Her servants and scullions had perhaps suffered worse than she during Buntokapi’s tenure as Lord, and belatedly, Mara remembered to sympathize. Had she been one of those kitchen girls – or her brother, father, or lover – who had been dragged into service in Bunto’s bed, she, too, might have been tempted to feed his brother leavings from the garbage set aside for the jigabirds. Mara repressed a smile at the thought. ‘I must pay more attention to the feelings of my staff, Nacoya, lest I perpetuate Bunto’s thoughtlessness.’

Nacoya only nodded. Time for talk was past, as the painted red-and-yellow litter and rows of marching warriors filed into the dooryard. Mara fingered the emerald and jade bracelet on her wrist and strove to maintain decorum as the Anasati honour guard snapped to a halt and Jiro’s bearers set down his litter before her doorway.

At the last possible moment, Jican hurried through the door to take his place beside Nacoya and Tasido, who as senior Acoma Strike Leader commanded the Lady’s honour guard. Wishing Keyoke or Lujan were present in his stead, Mara observed the Anasati soldiers through narrowed eyes. They were not relaxed but spaced in a formation that allowed free access to draw weapons. She had expected no less, yet to be confronted by such readiness for hostility with an elderly officer in charge was not a comfortable circumstance. Old Tasido had arthritis and cataracts; in better times, he would have seen honourable retirement by now. But the Acoma forces had taken too many casualties on the barbarian world when Lord Sezu was betrayed to his death for even one officer to be spared. In another year, or perhaps two, the old man would be given a hut near the river where he could live his remaining days in peace. But today not one sword could be dispensed with.

Mara had not seen Jiro since her wedding day nearly four years past. Curious as well as cautious, she watched the young man step from his litter. He was well dressed, but not in the gaudy style preferred by his father. His robe was black silk, sparingly trimmed with red tassels. His belt was tastefully adorned with shell and lacquer bosses, and his hair was cut plainly as a warrior’s. He stood taller than his brother Buntokapi had; his build was leaner and he held himself with considerably more grace. The face resembled his mother’s, with high cheekbones and a haughty mouth. His square jaw kept him from looking overbred, but his hands were as fine as a woman’s. He was a handsome man, save for a certain cruelty betrayed around his lips and eyes.

Jiro bowed with sarcastic perfection.

‘Welcome to the house of the Acoma,’ Mara greeted without inflection. She returned his bow, but kept the courtesy brief, in pointed reference to the fact that the Anasati son had brought an armed retinue into her courtyard out of all proportion for a social visit. As was her right as senior in rank, she waited for her guest to begin the formal inquiries. After a pause through which Jiro kept still in the expectation that Mara might blunder and ask after his health, he finally said, ‘Are you well, Lady?’

Mara gave a curt nod. ‘I am well, thank you. Are you well, Jiro?’

The young man smiled, but his eyes stayed serpent-cold. ‘I am well, as is the father who sent me.’ He rested a languid hand on the dagger sheathed at his belt. ‘I can see that you are well also, Mara, and if anything, grown more beautiful in motherhood. It is a pity for one so lovely to be widowed so young. Such a waste.’

If his tone was impeccably polite, his words bordered upon insult. This was no visit of reconciliation. Aware that his attitude approached that of an overlord visiting a vassal, Mara swept up her robes and led the way through the entry,
leaving him to follow like a servant. Let him play his parlour games too long and she might be manoeuvred into putting up with him for more than the afternoon. Since Tecuma would be expecting the boy to bring back whatever information on the Acoma he might be able to pry loose, Mara had no intention of letting Jiro gain excuse to stay the night.

Servants had laid trays of light refreshments in the great hall. Mara seated herself on the dais. She appointed Nacoya the place on her right, and granted Jican the permission to retire that he longed for. Then she waved for Jiro to make himself comfortable on the cushions across from her; the place she accorded him was that of an equal. Given this voluntary courtesy, he could not protest the fact that Tasido and his subofficers would be standing at his back. To place her honour guard on the dais was done only when hostile parties met for parley. This not overtly being the case, Jiro’s bodyguard must remain by the door. Mara’s most trusted house servant plied her noble guest with a bowl to wash his hands, and a towel. He politely inquired what Jiro would prefer to drink, his timing perfectly arranged to keep the guest occupied with trivia. The Lady of the Acoma spoke before Jiro could seize the chance to regroup. ‘Since a man would not require so many soldiers on a visit to console his brother’s widow, I presume your father has some message for me?’

Jiro stiffened. He recovered his bearing with admirable control and looked up; Mara had struck hard and to the heart. She had turned the memory of the brother who had died to further Acoma standing in the game back upon him, and also implied that Jiro wished to ‘console’ his brother’s widow in a manner more intimate than Tsurani custom found acceptable – and further, that he was nothing more than his father’s errand boy. It was the verbal equivalent of a slap to the face. The look the Anasati son turned upon her was icy and possessed a fathomless hatred.

Mara hid a shiver. By Nacoya’s white-lipped stillness, she was aware that she had made a mistake; she had also underestimated Jiro’s enmity. This boy despised her with a passion beyond his years. In his cold silence, Mara realized he would lurk like the poisonous relli of the swamps, biding his time until he saw his opening. He would not move against her until his trap was perfected and he was absolutely certain of his victory.

‘I will not repeat the rumours concerning my Lady’s preference in lovers since the loss of her noble husband,’ Jiro said with a diction so clear that, while not overloud, could be understood by even the door servants. To emphasize how demeaning the matter was, he raised his drink and sipped with a steady hand. ‘And, yes, I did leave off an important trade transaction in Sulan-Qu to stop here, by my father’s suggestion. He has heard of secret meetings between certain council members that he believes might indicate plots that pose danger to his grandson, Ayaki. As regent to the Acoma heir, you are being sent a warning.’

‘Your words are vague,’ Nacoya pointed out with the acerbity of an elder who has lived long enough to see many a youth succumb to folly. Using a tone well practised from her days as a servant in the nursery, she added, ‘Since neither the Anasati nor the Acoma stand to gain if Ayaki fails to inherit his Lordship, I suggest you be more specific’

Jiro inclined his head with the barest suggestion of malice. ‘My father is not privy to these plots, First Adviser, dearest Lady. His allies have not spoken directly to him, which he believes might be due to heavy bribes. But he has eyes and ears in strategic places that see and hear for him, and he wished you to know that factions who are partial to the Minwanabi have met more than once in secret. The Omechan were heard to compliment Lord Desio’s restraint in the face of Acoma affront, and while they are powerful, their dependence upon Minwanabi goodwill in the Alliance
for War makes them chary of losing supporters at this time. More than the Omechan applaud Desio’s cold-blooded planning, and that approval works against your heir’s interests. In short, you have few allies voicing support in the High Council.’

Mara waved for a servant to carry away the refreshment tray, which Jiro had not touched. Although she regretted provoking Jican’s disappointment that the finest fruits in the kitchens should be spurned, she was too tense to indulge herself. She did not like the way Jiro’s eyes darted about, taking in every detail of the Acoma hall, servants, and guardsmen. His interest held the hunger of an officer in an enemy camp who gathered information in preparation for an assault. Never as straightforward as his elder brother, Halesco, Jiro thought in subtleties that were rooted in ambition. Mara strove to sort out how much of what he spoke was truth, and how much was exaggeration designed to scare her. ‘What you say is not exactly unknown to me, Jiro, at least in general. Surely your father need not have sent you from your important transaction to tell me these things,’ she ventured, testing. ‘A bonded messenger might have sufficed.’