Servant of the Empire (28 page)

Then, hoarse from calling orders, Keyoke knelt before a pool of water fed by a small waterfall that splashed through an unscalable cleft in the rim. He unstrapped his helm, rinsed his parched face, then did up the buckle with hands that betrayed him by shaking. He was not afraid; he had led charges in too many battles to fear any death by the blade. No, it was age, and weariness, and sorrow for his Lady that set his fingers trembling at their task. Keyoke checked his sword, and then his knives in their sheaths, and lastly looked up to find the water boy with his dipper awaiting a turn at the brook. The boy was also shaking, though his shoulders were held straight as any man’s.

Proud of even the smallest member of his company, Keyoke said, ‘We have enough water here to last as long as we need. See that the soldiers drink deeply.’

The boy managed an unsteady smile. ‘Yes, Force Commander.’ He splashed his pail into the pool, as ready to die for his mistress as the most hardened soldier.

Keyoke arose and turned his gaze over the bustling activity, the servants huddled over the smothered campfires, the warriors on guard at the barricades; there was no laxity in discipline. These soldiers resisted the novice’s tendency to look toward the light; they needed no reminder to know their survival depended upon unspoiled night vision. Keyoke sighed imperceptibly, knowing nothing was left to be done but to make rounds and give encouragement to men who knew their lives were measured now in hours.

Keyoke swallowed needra steak whose juices held no savour. To the cook who took his empty plate he said, ‘Be my spokesman to the servants; should the Minwanabi break past our front barricade, and our last soldiers lie dying, use the shields to scoop up the burning brands and hurl them into the silk. Then throw yourselves at the Minwanabi, that they must kill you with swords and grant you honourable deaths.’

The cook bowed his head in abject gratitude. ‘You honour us, Force Commander.’

Keyoke returned a smile. ‘You will honour your Lady and your house by carrying out your orders. In this you must be like warriors.’

The old man, whose name Keyoke couldn’t recall, said, ‘We shall not fail Lady Mara’s trust, Force Commander.’

Keyoke had given orders that one man in every three should move to the rear of the narrow canyon and eat a quick meal. The second company had finished eating, and now the third took their places near the campfire. Strike Leader Dakhati held back as Keyoke left the cook fire. In
barely suppressed uneasiness, the younger officer fingered the unblooded crest of his officer’s plume. ‘What are your tactics, Force Commander?’

Keyoke glanced one last time around the gully that already smelled like carrion, now rendered grey, black, and flickering orange by the blaze of shielded fires. Since nothing more could be done, he answered with clipped deliberation. ‘We wait. Then we fight.’

With a wariness learned during his years as a bandit leader, First Strike Leader Lujan scanned the perimeter. The moonlight shone down much too brightly, and the flatlands along the river road were open, not at all to his liking for a pitched fight. But level ground gave him the advantage of seeing an enemy’s approach, and he had at his command every soldier that could be spared from Mara’s estate. It would take a major assault by at least three full companies of warriors to break through the circled wagons. And the Minwanabi would need to send no fewer than five hundred men to be certain of victory. Nonetheless, Lujan suffered an uneasy stomach and an urge to pace. Again he reviewed his defences, studying the archers atop the wagons, and found nothing amiss as cooks cleaned up after the evening meal. His foreboding did not lessen, but only increased, for battle was long overdue.

The Minwanabi should have struck by now. At first light tomorrow his caravan would roll toward the gates of Sulan-Qu. The report from Arakasi’s spy said a major attack was a certainty. And to Lujan’s practised military mind, the most likely site for ambush had been a forested bend in the road passed uneventfully the previous afternoon. That left a night attack, for it was inconceivable the Minwanabi would try to seize the caravan inside the city.

Again Lujan surveyed the road. His instincts screamed that something was wrong. For lack of anything better to do
save sleep, he walked the perimeter, and as he had done only minutes before, he spoke a quiet word with guards who were growing edgy from his repeated surveillance. His worry was hampering the vigilance of the sentries, Lujan knew.

The Strike Leader passed through the narrow corridor between the backs of his guards and the rows of leather-lashed wagons shielding the central fires, the needra pickets, and the men who slept in shifts. The wagons were laden with thyza bags under their linen coverings; for appearance’s sake, two bolts of silk showed beneath one bulging, mis-tied corner. The cloth glistened by moonlight, smooth as water and opulently perfect in quality.

Lujan fingered his sword. He repeatedly reviewed what he knew and couldn’t escape the same conclusion: the delayed attack made no sense. After sunrise, the enemy would be forced to wait until the caravan left the gates on the south road to Jamar. Ambush then would be complicated by the possibility that the cargo might be loaded onto barges and sent downriver by water. Could the Minwanabi have mounted two forces, one on shore and one on boats to attack upon the river? They had enough warriors, gods knew. But battle on the swift-flowing Gagajin would pose difficulties –

‘Strike Leader!’ hissed a nearby sentry.

Lujan’s sword left its sheath, seemingly by its own volition. The Acoma Strike Leader forced a calm he did not feel into his words as he urged the man to speak.

‘Look there. Someone comes.’

Lujan cursed his nerves, which had caused him to face the fires but a moment before to inspect his sleeping men; now he waited impatiently for his night vision to return. Shortly he made out a lone figure down the road from their position.

‘He staggers like he’s drunk,’ observed the sentry. The approaching man stumbled unsteadily on his feet. His stride
was awkward, as if he could not use the heel of his right foot, and the arm at his side swung slack like something gutted.

As he closed the last few yards, and came into the light, Lujan saw that he wore a bloodstained loincloth and clutched a rag of a shirt over his shoulders. His deadened eyes did not register the presence of soldiers or camped caravan. Lujan said, ‘He’s not drunk – he’s half-dead.’

Lujan motioned a nearby warrior to accompany him as he stepped away from the perimeter. Together, officer and soldier caught the man by his shoulder and upper arm, and the half-held shirt fell away to reveal a chain of bruises, overlaid with scabs and dusty clots of dried blood. Looking in horror at a face that showed no expression, Lujan forced his breath past his teeth. This man had been beaten to madness.

‘Who did this?’ demanded the Strike Leader.

The man blinked, worked his lips and seemed to emerge from a daze. ‘Water,’ he whispered hoarsely, as if he had been screaming, full-throated, and for a long time. Lujan called a servant to fetch a waterskin, then gently eased the injured man to the ground. Something inside the man seemed to break as he drank. His abused legs quivered in the dust, and suddenly he was fainting. The soldier’s strong hands propped him upright, and the servant splashed water on his wrists and face. Dust and blood rinsed away to reveal more bruises, and a sickening smell of burned flesh.

‘Gods,’ said the soldier. ‘Who did this?’

Ignoring his abused state, the man attempted to rise. ‘Must go,’ he muttered, though it was clear he could not continue.

Lujan ordered two warriors to lift the man up and carry him through the wagons to a fire. Settled on a blanket, and exposed at last to the light, the extent of what he had suffered was revealed. No portion of his body had been spared from torment. The tale was told in ugly lesions,
ragged at the edges where caustic solutions had been applied; the hand wrapped in the shirt tatters was a mass of blackened burns and without fingernails; and the skin over sensitive nerve centres was congested and purple with bruising. Whoever had tortured this man had been an artist of pain, for while the man yet survived, several times during the process he must have begged for passage to the halls of Turakamu.

Lujan spoke softly in sympathy. ‘Who are you?’

The man’s eyes struggled to focus. ‘I must warn her,’ he insisted in a voice made feverish by pain.

‘Warn?’ asked Lujan.

‘I must warn my Lady …’

Lujan knelt and bent closer to the man, whose voice grew faint. ‘Who is your Lady?’

The man thrashed feebly against the soldier’s grasp, then seemed to weaken. ‘Lady Mara.’

Lujan glanced at the soldiers who stood upon either side. ‘Do you know this man?’ he questioned quickly.

A warrior from the old Acoma garrison indicated he had never seen the wounded man, and he knew every servant by sight.

Lujan motioned the others to stand away and leaned down. Near the man’s ear he whispered, ‘Akasis bloom …’

The man struggled upright and fixed a bright, fevered gaze on Lujan’s face. ‘… in my lady’s dooryard,’ he muttered back. ‘The sharpest thorns …’

Lujan finished, ‘… protect sweet blossoms.’

‘Gods, gods, you’re Acoma,’ said the man in relief. For an instant it looked as if he might shame himself, and cry.

Lujan rested his knuckles on his knees. His eyes never strayed from the tortured man’s face as he called for the healer to dress and bind the wounds. ‘You are one of my Lady’s agents,’ he concluded softly.

The man managed a nearly imperceptible nod. ‘Until a
few days ago. I …’ He paused, winced, and seemed to maintain lucidity with an effort. ‘I am Kanil. I served in the Minwanabi household. I carried food to Desio’s table and stood by to meet his demands. Much of …’ His voice faded.

Gently as possible Lujan said, ‘Slowly. Tell us slowly. We have all night to listen.’

The injured servant jerked his chin violently in the negative, then sank back into a faint.

‘Give him air, and tell the healer to bring a restorative to rouse him,’ Lujan snapped. A warrior hurried off to comply, while the men who had been steadying the man gently eased a blanket under his head. Moments later the healer arrived, unlimbering his bundled box of medicines and bandages. He quickly prepared and pressed a strong-smelling medicine to the unconscious man’s nose. He roused with a groan and thrashed his arms.

Lujan caught his tortured gaze. ‘Tell me. You were discovered.’

‘Somehow.’ The man blinked, as if trapped by unpleasant memories. ‘The First Adviser, Incomo, found out I was an Acoma agent.’

Lujan said nothing. Besides the Spy Master, only four people in the Acoma household, Mara, Nacoya, Keyoke, and himself, knew the passwords, changed at irregular intervals, that would identify an Acoma agent. The possibility could not be dismissed that this man might be a Minwanabi impostor. Only Arakasi would know for certain. If torture could force the password from the real agent, any number of enemy warriors might agree to this abuse to ruin the Acoma.

Kanil clawed weakly at Lujan’s wrist. ‘I don’t know how they found me out. They called for me and then took me to this room.’ He swallowed hard. ‘They tortured me … I lost consciousness and when I awoke I was alone. The door was unguarded. I don’t know why. Perhaps they thought I was
dead. Many Minwanabi soldiers were rushing to board boats and cross the lake. I crept out of the room in which I was a prisoner and stowed away on a supply boat. I passed out, and when I was again conscious, the flotilla was docked at Sulan-Qu. There were only two guards at the far end of the docks, so I slipped off into the city.’

‘Strike Leader Lujan,’ the healer interjected, ‘if you question this man too long, his survival may be threatened.’

At the mention of Lujan’s name, Kanil stirred in sudden and shattering agitation. ‘Oh, gods!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘This is the false caravan.’

Lujan’s only betrayal of shock was a tightening of his hand on his sword hilt. Taut, dangerous, and wary, he ignored the healer’s plea and leaned close to the man. Too softly he said, ‘For what reason would the Spy Master inform you of this deception?’

The man lay uncaring of his peril. Whispering, he said, ‘Arakasi didn’t. The Minwanabi know! They laughed and boasted of what they knew of Lady Mara’s plan while they tortured me.’

Chilled by this answer, Lujan pressed, ‘Do they know about the real silk shipment?’

Kanil returned a painful nod. ‘They do. They sent three hundred men to plunder it.’

Lujan stood. Curbing an impulse to fling his plumed helm to the ground, he cried, ‘Damn the fickleness of the gods!’

Then, aware of curious eyes that turned in his direction, he waved healer and soldiers away, leaving him alone with the tortured man. Night wind stirred the fire. Kneeling, Lujan seized Kanil by the back of the neck and hauled his battered face near to his own so they might speak without being overheard. ‘Upon your soul and life, do you know where?’

Tremors coursed through Kanil’s body. But his eyes were steady as he said, ‘The attack will happen on the road
through the Kyamaka Mountains, beyond the Tuscalora border, in a place where wagons must climb up out of a depression toward a western ridge. That is all I know.’

Lujan stared unseeing into features ravaged by enemies. He thought with a clarity that came on him in moments of crisis, and reviewed every dell and hideout and cranny he remembered in the mountains where he had once led his band of grey warriors. There were many an army might use for an ambush. Yet only one place that was suitable for concealment of three full companies matched the description. As if dreaming, Lujan said, ‘How long ago did the Minwanabi dogs pass Sulan-Qu?’