Servant of the Empire (49 page)

Desio stripped off the stinking gloves, and gestured for Incomo to accompany him to his quarters. ‘I wish a hot bath.’

The First Adviser restrained a curl of his lip. His master reeked of the urine that soaked the gloves, and his sandals had been spattered by the dogs. Drenched in perspiration, and talking excitedly, Desio glowed as if with a lust for sex. Incomo realized he hadn’t seen the master so aroused since Jingu had ordered slave girls whipped for his amusement.

‘Those dogs are … unusual,’ the First Adviser ventured.

Desio said, ‘More than that. They are a reflection of myself. Unrelenting, unmerciful, bringing pain and destruction to enemies. They are Minwanabi dogs.’

Incomo hid consternation as he followed on his master’s heels into the estate house. Desio clapped for his bath attendants, then added, ‘I know Jiro has his own reasons for tempting me to betray my oath to Turakamu, but whatever they may be, he has gained my favour with Slayer and Slaughter.’

Incomo managed a magnanimous tilt of his head. ‘I am sure my master will be cautious of unreasonable … ah, requests.’

Sensing buried disapproval, Desio scowled. ‘Leave me. Return to the great hall when dinner is served.’

Thin fingers clasped at his belt, Incomo bowed low and departed from a bath chamber that suddenly seemed crowded with steam and scented slave girls. As his slippered feet whispered down the corridors, he ruminated sadly on Tasaio’s loss of favour. No stranger to Minwanabi excesses, Incomo knew by his sour stomach that the day’s bloodletting had struck a responsive chord in Desio. The master was
acting more the bold Lord with each passing day; but if his future choices followed his taste for the hounds, Incomo felt Minwanabi fortunes would not be better for it. Undeniably Jingu’s excesses had brought the House to the brink of disaster. Sighing at the trials forced upon mortals by the whims of gods and capricious masters, Lord Desio’s First Adviser retired to his quarters. He stretched on his cushions to nap, but the bloodthirsty baying of hounds marred his rest and his dreams.

The boy screamed.

Kevin yelled back as he dodged away between flower beds. Ayaki gave chase, shouting Acoma battle cries in a boyish imitation of bloodlust. At times he became too intense, and Kevin would reverse course, capture the boy in his arms, and tickle him. Then Ayaki would shriek in delight and fill the garden with his laughter.

Mara allowed herself pleasure at the sight of their play. Kevin was often a mystery to her, despite their years of intimacy, but one thing she knew: without doubt the man was devoted to her son. His companionship was good for Ayaki; approaching seven years of age, the boy had a tendency toward brooding, intensified during his mother’s lengthy absence. But Ayaki could not lapse into dark moods with the Midkemian near. For as if he sensed the onset of the boy’s troubled thoughts, Kevin was instantly diverting him with a fanciful story or riddle, a game or physical contest. Through the months since her return from Tsubar, Ayaki became more the boy Mara remembered. She reflected with wistfulness that Kevin could not have shown more affection had he been the child’s father. Putting aside daydreams, she returned her attention to the document with its weighty seals and ribbons.

Motionless in the shade before her, Arakasi awaited his mistress’s response. Finally Mara said, ‘Must we go?’

Arakasi stayed quiet as the leaves in the still air as he answered. ‘Imperial peace will be enforced, so no overt threat can be mounted.’

‘Overt,’ she said. ‘That is scant reassurance against
Minwanabi plotting. Need I remind you the first attempt upon my life was by an assassin of the Red Hands of the Flower Brotherhood in my own contemplation glade?’

The event had occurred before Arakasi’s service, yet he knew the story well. He inclined his head. ‘Mistress, there is a good chance Desio will behave. Your standing in the council is the highest in memory, higher than your father’s, if truth be told. And our remaining agents in the Minwanabi house have sent us word that Jiro of the Anasati visited with Desio not two weeks ago.’

Mara raised her eyebrows. ‘Go on.’

Dapples of sunlight slid across Arakasi’s face as he sipped at a cup of fruit juice. ‘Our agents were unable to overhear them directly, but after Jiro departed, Desio raged for an entire day, complaining bitterly that he would not be dictated to in his own house by a rival family. From this we might surmise that Tecuma of the Anasati has sent his son to warn against precipitate actions against his grandson.’

Mara glanced at Ayaki, shrieking his enthusiasm as he leaped upon the now prone Kevin. ‘Perhaps. Though I find it difficult to believe Tecuma would send his second son. Jiro’s hatred of me is no secret.’

Arakasi shrugged. ‘Possibly Tecuma sent his son to emphasize his serious intentions.’

The flowers’ perfume suddenly seemed oppressive. ‘Emphasize to whom?’ Mara said. ‘Desio or Jiro?’

Arakasi showed a faint smile. ‘Perhaps both.’

Mara shifted on her cushions. ‘I would like to know for certain before I risk a trip to the Holy City.’

Her restlessness signalled decision, intuitively grasped by Arakasi. ‘Mistress, I think I had best be present when you attend this celebration to honour the Light of Heaven. For reasons that elude my network, the Blue Wheel Party’s sudden reversal of loyalty has vaulted the Warlord into an almost unassailable position. Almecho can dictate to the
Council now, and should Ichindar break tradition – as gossip says he might – and attend the games in person …’

Excited that his assessment matched hers, Mara nodded. ‘The Emperor’s appearance would endorse Almecho’s acts, effectively undermining the High Council for the span of this Warlord’s rule.’

In a rapport that only deepened with time’s passage, mistress and Spy Master contemplated possible ramifications. Much would occur in Kentosani besides games and celebrations. Those families who seized the initiative would not hang back at home. The Warlord might become dictator for life, but he could not live forever. Sooner or later the Great Game would resume.

Arakasi tensed as the patches of sunlight on his knees fell into sudden shadow. Kevin’s approach had gone unnoticed until he stood, holding Ayaki on his shoulders, looming over the mat where Mara held her conference.

‘My Lady,’ the Midkemian said formally, ‘the heir to your title is hungry.’

Gladdened by the distraction, Mara smiled. To Arakasi she said, ‘Speak with Nacoya and Keyoke and make ready to leave tomorrow. You shall travel to Kentosani with the servants and slaves sent ahead to prepare our city house and our apartment in the Imperial Palace. Confirm all the resident staff’s loyalty. We dare not assume all plotting will be directed at the Warlord.’

Well satisfied with his assignment, Arakasi rose, made his bow, and departed. When the Lady still lingered in serious thought, Kevin broke her abstracted mood. ‘Are we going somewhere?’

Mara met his blue eyes with a look too deep to interpret. ‘The Warlord has announced a major celebration to honour the Emperor. We leave for the Holy City next week.’

Her news was met with equanimity, even by the volatile Ayaki. In the months since her return from Dustari, life had
settled back to routine; Mara had acceded to Kevin’s wish to ease the Midkemians’ lot; and with better food and housing, new blankets, and a lighter work schedule, Patrick’s impatience had subsided. But the schism remained between Kevin and his fellow countrymen; pretending otherwise would not heal it. While escape was not mentioned, freedom was never far from the other captives’ thoughts; they might not press, but they knew that Kevin visited only out of duty. He would never join them as long as he shared Mara’s bed.

Ayaki kicked at his mount. Jarred from uncomfortable reflection, Kevin gave a feigned cry of pain. ‘Someone is hungry. I think I had best hurry the young Lord to the kitchen so he may plunder the larder.’

Mara laughed and gave leave. Kevin reached up, grappled Ayaki by the wrists, and swung him down to his feet, then swatted him on the backside. The future Lord of the Acoma shouted another battle cry and charged toward the shade of the estate house. As Kevin raced after with no more sense of decorum, the Lady of the Acoma shook her head. ‘Nacoya hates it when those two eat in the kitchen,’ she said to no one.

The birds in the treetops returned to their interrupted song. Mara let her mind wander. Weary of the pressures of leadership, she had lately given thought to reviving Hokanu’s interest. The Shinzawai had shored up their weakened stock in the council by rejoining Almecho’s Alliance for War, making a Shinzawai-Acoma union yet more desirable. The radicals in the Party for Progress made enough noise about social change in the council for the Blue Wheel Party’s errant behaviour to pass without comment, but Mara sensed something larger was afoot. At the least, she could use the excuse to probe Hokanu for information.

Bothered that her interest should shift so quickly from romance to politics, Mara sighed.

‘My Lady?’ Nacoya appeared in the doorway, regarding her mistress with concern. ‘Is something amiss?’

Mara waved the old woman to the mat Arakasi had vacated. ‘I grow … tired, Nacoya.’

Slowly, painful with her years, Nacoya knelt. The rampages of Ayaki and Kevin were forgotten as she took Mara’s fingers in her own, grown daily more gnarled with infirmity. ‘Daughter, what weighs down your heart so?’

Mara pulled away from Nacoya’s hold. As one of her ever present servants arrived to remove Arakasi’s refreshment tray, she took a dried bread crust and tossed it into the path. Two small birds swooped down to peck after the crumbs. ‘Just this moment I was considering paying court to the Lord of the Shinzawai, for Hokanu, thinking a consort might ease my burdens. But then I found myself wanting to take the excuse to wrest information on the affairs of the Blue Wheel Party. This saddens me, Nacoya, because Hokanu is too fine a man to be used so.’

Acting more as nurse than as First Adviser, Nacoya nodded her understanding. ‘Your heart has no room for romance, daughter. For good or ill, Kevin holds all your affections.’

Mara bit her lip, while the birds stabbed and scrapped for the last bit of bread. For years her household had kept silence before the obvious: that her love for the barbarian slave was more than a woman’s need for a man’s arms to comfort her against loneliness. Dutiful to a fault, Nacoya had not broached a subject the mistress had forbidden to her – no matter how often she might ignore Mara’s wishes about trivial concerns. But since Mara had matured enough to question her own course, the elderly woman spoke plainly. ‘Daughter, I warned you the first night the barbarian slave came to your bed. That is as it has been. Nothing can change what has occurred. Now you must face your responsibility.’

Mara bridled, and the small birds spread nervous wings and flew. ‘Do I not spend my life protecting what shall be Ayaki’s someday?’

Her eyes on the abandoned bread crust, Nacoya said, ‘Your father would glow with pride to know you have prevailed against his enemies. But your days are not your own. You are the life of House Acoma. No matter how great your desire, daughter, you must rule first and find your happiness second.’

Mara nodded, her face an emotionless mask. ‘I have moments …’

Nacoya recaptured Mara’s hand. ‘Moments that none who loves you begrudges, daughter. But the time will come when you must seek a firm alliance, if not with Hokanu of the Shinzawai, then with another noble’s son. This new consort must father a child, to seal the alliance between our house and his. As Ruling Lady, you may ask to your bed whoever pleases you, and none may say no, but only after you bear a child to your husband. Before that, there must be no question who the father is. None. For that child must be as a bridge of stone across a deep chasm.’

‘I know.’ Mara sighed. ‘But until that time I shall pretend …’ She left the thought unfinished.

When Nacoya made no move to leave, Mara forced aside her melancholy. ‘You have news?’

The former nurse scowled to hide a smile of pride. ‘The visiting emissary of Lord Keda is at the end of his wits and patience. He will press for a settlement this afternoon. You will need to eat, and see to your appearance, for Jican has used up excuses. The time has come for you to take charge of negotiations.’

Mara summoned up an impish grin. ‘The desperate and vexing matter of grain warehouses. I had not forgotten.’ She rose, offered a hand to the elder woman to ease her back to
her feet, then made her way to her quarters, where maids awaited with an exhaustive array of formal robes.

Two hours later, with the hair at her temples pulled painfully taut by the weight of the pins that secured her headpiece, Mara entered the great hall of the Acoma. Awaiting her, looking hot, stood the dignitary who had spent most of two frustrating days in contention with her hadonra. Equally bothered, and near to bristling with nerves, Jican arose to announce her.

‘My Lady of the Acoma,’ he called to the visitor, who swivelled around and regarded her down a beaked nose with the stuffiness of a clerk. Behind him, but less quick to stifle expressions of irritation, a rumpled-looking contingent of scribes and trade factors shoved to their feet and offered bows.

Mara waited until their senior had performed the obeisance due her station before she advanced to her dais. All eyes marked her progress, and the tap of Keyoke’s crutch as he followed on her heels made a counterpoint to the creak of Lujan’s armour.