Servant of the Empire (34 page)

The ghost of a smile tugged at Keyoke’s lips. He was pleased, but too much the Tsurani commander to show more than the glimmer of emotion. ‘Lady,’ he said gruffly, ‘Tasaio holds your death in his hands, in Dustari.’

So Lujan had told him; Mara swallowed against a clenching tide of tears. Most likely that had been what it took to make the old man agree to live.

Even ill, Keyoke read her. ‘No, Lady. I needed no coercion to serve the Acoma. I am honoured to become Adviser for War, never doubt.’ He paused, seeking words. ‘I prepared to die as a warrior because that was the only destiny I ever saw for a Force Commander grown too old for the field.’

Mara would not settle for this. ‘And the leg?’

Keyoke did smile, very fleetingly. ‘Papewaio is my teacher. If he could bear the black rag, I shall bear my crutch.’ An instant later he added, ‘Kevin suggested that the armourer make one that holds a concealed sword.’

‘You like that idea,’ Mara observed. She allowed herself to smile also. ‘Grandfather of my heart, I shall make your crutch your staff of office and see the armourers about a blade myself.’

She regarded his sweating face, too grey and gaunt, and against all his wishes showing tiredness. ‘You will train Lujan, and between us we will find a way to rout Tasaio’s desert men.’

Keyoke’s eyes flicked open wider, nailing her with their intensity. ‘Daughter of my heart, there is no strategy that will help you on treeless sand, except sheer numbers. That my wisdom cannot arrange.’

He sank back after that, exhausted beyond bone and sinew. His will was not enough, Mara saw; he was sincere in his gratitude for his new office, but the body was too battered. The Red God might not let him keep the life that had burned itself recklessly until news of the foray could be delivered.

‘Leave Dustari to Lujan and me,’ Mara murmured. ‘Ayaki is your last responsibility, and the natami in the sacred grove. Should all else fail, and the Minwanabi overrun our borders, you and one picked company can see the boy safe. Take refuge in the hive with the cho-ja Queen, and ensure the Acoma name survives.’

Keyoke lay with eyes closed. He did not speak, but the hand within Mara’s returned a light squeeze. She smoothed the fingers against the coverlet and noticed the fast, thready pulse that raced through the veins on his wrist. He was dying. The fact could not be denied.

‘Rest well, grandfather of my heart,’ Mara whispered. In a forced show of calm she arose and stepped to the doorway.
‘Get my runner slave, and every available messenger,’ she murmured to the servant outside. ‘I also want guild runners in Sulan-Qu.’

She spoke quickly, unaware of the rotund man in the smock who hurried down the corridor and stopped, quizzically, at her side. He carried a bulging bag of elixirs, and his person smelled hastily of herbs. ‘You will send for the priest of Hantukama?’ he asked, in a voice that was schooled to be mild.

Mara spun, noticed the presence of her personal healer, and returned a quick nod. ‘It is necessary, don’t you think?’

The healer sighed in sympathy. ‘Lady Mara, I doubt that your Adviser for War will remain conscious past the dawn, or breathe for two more days after that.’

‘He will live,’ Mara returned fiercely. ‘I will find him a priest, and pay for a prayer gate to have the magic of the god invoked for healing.’

The healer rubbed arched brows and looked weary. ‘Lady, the priests are not so easily moved. They are loyal to no one but their god, and they consider common villagers the equal of even the Emperor. If you do find a priest of Hantukama, and they are rare, no prayer gate will lure him to forsake the sick already in his care for the sake of a dying warrior.’

Mara regarded the man with his sacks of useless remedies and his unwelcome truths. Her eyes lacked even a spark of compassion. ‘We shall see, master healer. We shall see.’

Before that look the healer quailed, and ducked hastily into the sickroom. Mara’s voice pursued him, low and determined as a spear thrust. ‘Keep him alive and comfortable. That is all that need concern you.’

She resumed her instruction to the servant, and to the runner slave recently arrived.

Bent at Keyoke’s side, counting the pulse on one dry, heated wrist, the healer turned his eyes heavenward and
prayed to Chochocan and Hantukama for a miracle. Keyoke was weakening, and not a remedy in his satchel could stay the spirit from Turakamu’s call. The healer went on to examine the whites of Keyoke’s eyes, and then to check his bandages; of the two, his gods and his mistress, this moment he feared the wrath of the Lady the more.

Preparation for the war in Dustari overturned the quiet routine on the Acoma estate. In the crafts compound, the constant hiss of the sharpener’s wheel sang in rhythm with the calls of slaves and apprentices directing the unloading of supplies, and the thick, pitchy odour of the resin pots overlaid the akasi blossoms’ sweeter tang. The smell lingered in the air, invading even Mara’s quarters, where, at dawn, she stood by the screen looking out.

‘Come back to bed,’ Kevin murmured, his eyes admiring her slender, nude silhouette. ‘If you’re determined to worry, you’ll do a better job of it if you’re relaxed and rested.’

Mara did not answer but continued to stare through the mists and the moving shadows of the herd boys hurrying to tend the needra in the meadows. She did not see the slaves, though, or the soft beauty of the lands she had inherited from her forefathers. She only saw a thousand Minwanabi soldiers crossing her borders bent on conquest.

Keyoke must stay alive to manage while she was away, Mara thought. As if her lover had not spoken, she began a ritual prayer pattern invoking Lashima’s protection upon the life of her Adviser for War, who lay in a coma on his cushions, with the Red God poised for final conquest.

Kevin sighed and uncurled like a hunting cat from the pillows his Lady had vacated. Plainly this was not to be a morning for talk and lovemaking. They had done enough of that last night, anyway, the Midkemian reflected, running his fingers through his hair. Mara had come to him tense, almost to the point of anger, and their interaction had held
little tenderness. Though usually content to be stroked into passion, Mara had hurled herself upon him as if frenzied with lust. Her hands came as close as they ever had to scratching, though violence of any sort in the bedchamber abhorred her. And when she found her release in a convulsive burst of emotion, she had sobbed stormily into his shoulder and soaked her hair with her tears.

Not being Tsurani, Kevin had not been repulsed by her break in composure. Sensitive that this woman needed comfort, he had simply held her and stroked her until she fell into exhausted sleep.

Now, watching her stand, sword-straight and slim as a girl in the frame of the opened screen, he saw that she had recovered her resilience; she was very strong. But upon her shoulders rested the well-being of all who made their livelihood on her far-flung holdings, from respected factors and advisers to the lowliest of her kitchen scullions. Fear for her young son haunted her, waking and sleeping, and Kevin wondered how long she could last before she broke under the strain.

He arose, tossed a robe over his shoulders – even after three years, he could never quite feel comfortable with the Tsurani disregard for modesty – and joined Mara by the screen. He slipped an arm over her shoulders, surprised to find her rigid and shivering.

‘Mara,’ he said gently, and opened his robe and wrapped one side of it around her, bundling her against his warmth.

‘I’m worried about Keyoke,’ she admitted, snuggling against him. ‘You’ve been a great comfort.’ She rested her head against his forearm and tickled a playful hand down his groin.

Kevin considered sweeping her up and carrying her back to the bed; but once again her thoughts carried her away from him, and after a moment she pulled clear of his embrace and clapped her hands sharply.

Servants invaded the chamber, clearing away sleeping mat and cushions, and hustling to assemble Mara’s wardrobe. Kevin retired to a screened-off corner to dress. When he emerged, he was surprised to see a breakfast tray laid with fruit, chocha, and bread, but untouched; and although a staff of three remained standing by to serve, Mara was no longer in the room.

‘Where is the Lady?’ Kevin inquired.

The house servant in charge regarded him with no sense of humility; no matter how fine the embroidery on Kevin’s Midkemian-style shirt, he was still a slave, inferior in station, and not worthy of courtesy from a free man. ‘The Lady has gone to the front entrance.’ He fell silent, and a small battle of wills ensued. At last, seeing that Kevin would neither demean himself further by speaking, nor go about his business, but would stand staring down from his immense height with unblinking blue eyes, the servant sniffed. ‘A messenger has arrived.’

‘Thanks,’ Kevin muttered with dry irony, wishing as always that the Tsurani caste system were less rigid, and that someone in the whole bowing and scraping lot had thought to inform him of the arrival. Even Mara, but she had worries enough. He pulled on his sandals in hopping leaps through the door and hurried down the corridor to join her.

The messenger proved to be one of Arakasi’s, dust-covered and travel-worn. A boy in his teens, he had plainly run through the night, and from a distance much farther than Sulan-Qu.

‘We are committed to three shrines,’ he was saying as Kevin drew close. ‘One must be stone. And we must also build a prayer gate on your estate, to the Gods of Fortunate Aspect.’

This meant Chochocan, Lashima, Hantukama, and half a dozen others Kevin could not separate, their names and their qualities being strange to one of foreign origins. In
Kelewan there was even a god who governed the concept of honour.

‘The facing must be of corcara,’ the messenger ended, in pointed reference to the prayer gate.

The promised structure would become a costly undertaking, Kevin realized, as he sorted through his growing Tsurani vocabulary and identified corcara to be a shell resembling abalone.

But matters of finance and debt left Mara surprisingly unconcerned. ‘When will the healer priest arrive?’

The messenger bowed. ‘Noon today, Lady. Arakasi’s man arranged for hired bearers and paid the premium for haste.’

Mara closed her eyes, her face delicately pale in the thinning mists of dawn. ‘Pray to the Gods of Fortunate Aspect that we have that long.’ Then she seemed to notice the messenger’s weariness as if for the first time. ‘Rest and refresh yourself,’ she said quickly. ‘You have done well, and your master’s pledge to Hantukama shall be met. I will speak to Jican at once, and by the time the priest arrives we will have artists at work on drawings for the shrines and prayer gate.’

She would need to sell some outlying holdings to pay her account to the healer priest, but that was of decreased concern, with the Dustari campaign in the offing. Some of the outlying properties must be sacrificed, anyway, and their garrisons brought home to deter any threat to the estate. But although Mara usually attended to such important matters personally, this time she delegated responsibility to Jican. She heard and granted a list of requests from Lujan concerning immediate outfitting needs for her soldiers. Then, without a thought for the breakast she had forgotten, she continued onward to the chamber where Keyoke lay, surrounded by candles and eased by servants, but unconscious beyond recall, and breathing so shallowly that it
seemed impossible he was alive. Kevin waited respectfully in the doorway while Mara crossed the lit expanse of the floor and fell to her knees on the cushion by Keyoke’s side.

‘Honoured one, stay with us,’ she murmured. ‘Help will be coming by noon today. Arakasi has found a priest of Hantukama, who travels even now to aid the Acoma.’

Keyoke lay utterly still. Not even his eyelids flickered, and his skin remained white as nut paste.

Inescapably, he was a man at death’s door. Kevin had observed enough battle wounds and their aftereffects to recognize the facts. In pity, he left the doorway and crouched down behind his mistress. His hands locked solidly around her waist, and he said, ‘Dear one, he cannot hear you.’

Mara shook her head stubbornly, and her unbound hair filled his nostrils with its scent. ‘We believe differently. The Wheel of Life is many-sided, so say our priests. Keyoke’s fleshy ears may not hear, but his spirit, resting within his wal, never sleeps. His spirit will know I have spoken, and will take strength from Hantukama to hold Turakamu at bay.’

‘I hope your faith bears fruit,’ Kevin murmured. But he looked at Keyoke’s wasted flesh, and the hands upon which past sword scars showed like a white intaglio design, and he felt his own hope falter. His hands tightened upon the Lady to share comfort, and also sadness, and a fear he lacked the courage to face. Should he lose her, he thought – and banished the idea at once. An uneasy discovery followed, that should he be offered the chance for free return to his homeworld, he might not wish to leave her side.

‘Live, Keyoke,’ he said. ‘You are needed.’ And whether or not the wal of the warrior could hear him, the tall Midkemian spoke the words equally for himself.

The healing priest of Hantukama arrived just past the hour
of noon, with such marked lack of ceremony that his presence came as a surprise.

Mara had not left Keyoke’s chamber. She had answered the questions of her advisers there, and turned away servants who offered food. When noon came, she arose and began to pace, her brows drawn in a frown. Occasionally she would turn a concerned glance at the too still figure amid the cushions. Kevin, sitting quietly to one side, observed his Lady’s agitation, but knew better than to speak or offer sympathy. She might appear to be wholly absorbed in her worry, but the distance in her eyes warned otherwise. Her thoughts were very far from this sickroom, enmeshed in rituals of prayer and meditation learned in Lashima’s temple. There was rhythm to her movements, a dancelike adherence to forms that bespoke purpose rather than an aimless burning of energy. She finished one such pattern, blinked like a dreamer roused from sleep, and found a plainly robed figure standing beside her.