Servant of the Empire (72 page)

Kevin studied the new Warlord as the mantle was laid upon his shoulders. While the uncle, Almecho, had been a barrel-chested, bull-necked man, this nephew looked like a slender poet or teacher. His frame was thin to extreme and his face ascetic, almost delicate. But the triumph in his eyes revealed as rapacious a soul as Tasaio’s.

‘He seems pleased,’ said Kevin under his breath.

Arakasi spoke quietly. ‘He should be. He must have spent a large portion of his inheritance to have a half-dozen Lords murdered.’

‘You think the black-clad warriors were his?’

‘Almost without doubt.’

Mara said, ‘Why would he send soldiers against us? We would support any rival of Tasaio.’

‘To prevent unpredictable alliances. And to ensure blame for the general slaughter was placed at Minwanabi’s door.’ Arakasi’s mood turned expansive, perhaps from satisfaction over an enemy’s defeat. ‘He is the victor. Minwanabi isn’t. The tong almost certainly worked for Tasaio. Logically, the other soldiers were Omechan.’

Order returned to the council, and after an uneventful interval of speechmaking, Mara gave Kevin the order to fetch Lujan and her warriors. ‘We return to our town house tonight.’

The Midkemian bowed to her as a proper slave might, and walked slowly from the huge hall with its bejewelled, enigmatic Ruling Lords. Again he concluded that the
Tsurani were the strangest race with the most convoluted customs a man might ever encounter.

Calm returned to Kentosani. For an interval Mara and her household rested, healing wounds and assimilating the changes effected in politics since Axantucar’s assumption of the Warlordship. Evenings were festive in the town house as the Lady of the Acoma entertained several influential Lords whose interest now favoured her house. Kevin seemed more disgruntled than usual, but between exhaustion and her social obligations, Mara had little opportunity to deal with his dark mood.

Arakasi sought out his mistress on the third morning as she reviewed communications from several Lords still within the city. Clad in a clean servant’s robe, and content for the moment to let his splinted arm rest openly in a sling, he still gave her the deep bow her rank entitled. ‘Mistress, the Minwanabi retinue has boarded barges upon the river. Tasaio is returning to his estates.’

Mara stood, her pens and papers and messages forgotten in the joy of the moment. ‘Then we may safely return home.’

Again Arakasi bowed, this time lower than before. ‘Mistress, I wish to beg your forgiveness. In all that occurred, I was not prepared for the Lord of the Oaxatucan to rise so quickly to replace his uncle.’

‘You take yourself too harshly to task, Arakasi.’ A shadow crossed Mara’s face, and she moved restlessly to the window. Outside, the trees were shedding blossoms over the streets. Servants still pushed vegetable carts, and messengers still ran on swift feet. The day seemed bright and ordinary, like waking after nightmare. ‘Who among us could have anticipated the murder that was done that night?’ Mara added. ‘Your work spared five Lords, myself among them. I would venture no single person did more, and the result gained the Acoma great prestige.’

Arakasi bowed his head. ‘My mistress is gracious.’

‘I am grateful,’ Mara amended. ‘Come. Let us go home.’

Later that afternoon, the Acoma garrison marched smartly from the town house, Mara’s litter and carry boxes and a wagon bearing the wounded securely in their midst. At the docks, boats waited to take the mistress and her retinue downriver. Settled upon cushions beneath a canopy, with Kevin at her side, Mara regarded the everyday bustle of trade along the waterfront. ‘It is so tranquil. You would think nothing untoward had occurred in the last week.’

Kevin also watched the dock workers, fishermen, and labourers, the occasional beggar and street child interrupting the organized flow of commerce. ‘The common folk are never caught up in the affairs of the powerful – unless they have the misfortune to find themselves in the way. Then they die. Otherwise, their lives go on, each day of work like the next.’

Troubled by an undercurrent of bitterness in his tone, Mara studied the man she had come to love. The breeze ruffled his red hair, and the beard she could never quite become accustomed to. He leaned intently against the rail, the set of his shoulders stiff, the result of the scabs left by battle. The wrist beneath her hands was still bandaged, and the look in his eyes held a bleakness, as if he saw sorrow in the sunlight. She wanted to ask him his thoughts, but a shout from the shore distracted her.

The boatman cast off lines. Polemen began their chant, and the craft slipped away from Kentosani and turned downriver on the seaward pull of the Gagajin. Afternoon breezes snapped the pennons above the canopy, and Mara felt her heart lift. Tasaio had been defeated, and she was returning safely home. ‘Here,’ she said to Kevin. ‘Let us sit with a cool drink.’

The boats passed beyond the lower boundary of the Holy City, and the banks showed the green of land under
cultivation. The smell of river reeds mixed with the rich aroma of spring soil and the pungency of ngaggi trees. The towers of the temples receded, and Mara drowsed contentedly, her head against Kevin’s thigh.

A cry from the shore aroused her. ‘Acoma!’

Her Force Commander hailed back from the prow of the first boat, and presently the servants were all pointing to a cluster of tents at the river’s edge. A war camp of impressive size spread over the meadow, and from the highest pole a green banner with a shatra bird emblem blew in the wind. At Mara’s signal the steersman changed course for the bank, and by the time the boat reached the shallows a thousand Acoma soldiers waited to greet their mistress. Mara marvelled at their number, and her throat tightened with emotion. Scarcely ten years before, when she had assumed the mantle of Ruling Lady, there had been but thirty-seven left to wear the Acoma green….

Three Strike Leaders greeted her litter and bowed as Kevin assisted her out onto firm soil. ‘Welcome, Lady Mara!’

The warriors cheered as one to see their mistress again. The three officers formed ranks and escorted her through the troops to the shady awning of the command tent.

There Keyoke waited, standing tall upon his crutch. He managed a formal bow and said, ‘Mistress, our hearts are joyous at the sight of you.’

Fighting a sudden rush of tears, Mara answered, ‘And my heart sings for the sight of you, dear companion.’

Keyoke bowed at the kindness, and moved aside so she might enter and settle in comfort on the pillows piled upon the thick carpets. Kevin sank to his knees beside her. He kneaded her back with the hand that had sustained no injury, and under his touch he felt her tension dissolve into quiet contentment.

Still at his post by the entrance, Keyoke saw the calm that
settled over his mistress’s face. As he had in the past for Lord Sezu, he faced the outer world, where Lujan approached with Arakasi, Strike Leader Kenji, and the few hale survivors from the night of the bloody swords. A secret smile twitched the old retainer’s lips as he held up a hand in restraint.

‘Force Commander,’ said the former holder of that office, ‘if I may presume. There are times when it is best to let matters wait. Return to your mistress in the morning.’

Lujan bowed to Keyoke’s experience and called to the others to share a round of hwaet beer.

Inside the cool tent, Kevin glanced questioningly at the old man, who nodded his head in approval, then slipped the ties on the door curtains and let them slap gently closed. Outside the door now, Keyoke faced the sunlight. His craggy features remained impassive, but his eyes held a clear light of pride for the lover of the woman he counted the daughter of his heart.

Arakasi’s messenger had made very plain what the Acoma owed to Kevin’s courage with a sword. Keyoke’s grim face softened a fraction as he considered the stump that had been his right leg. Gods, but he was getting soft in his dotage. Never had he thought to see the day when he would be grateful for the impertinence of that redheaded barbarian slave.

Evening shadows dimmed the great hall of the Minwanabi in the hour Lord Tasaio returned. Still clad in the armour he had worn on his trip upriver, his only concession to formality the silk officer’s cloak he had tossed over his shoulders, he strode through the wide main doorway. The chamber was filled. Every member of the household stood arrayed to meet him, and behind them, every second cousin and vassal that had serviced the years of warfare and conflict. Tasaio strode between their still ranks as though he
were totally alone. Only when he reached the dais did he stop, turn, and acknowledge the presence of others.

Incomo stepped forward to greet him. ‘The hearts of the Minwanabi are filled at our Lord’s return.’

Tasaio returned a curt nod. He handed his battle helm to a servant, who bowed and retreated hastily. Never a man to waste words on banalities, the Lord of the Minwanabi turned a flat gaze upon his adviser. ‘Are the priests ready?’

Incomo bowed. ‘As you requested, my Lord.’

New black-and-orange cushions adorned the high dais, along with a rug sewn of sarcat pelts and a table fashioned of intricately etched harulth bones. Tasaio gave the change in furnishings what seemed a passing glance; yet no detail escaped him. Satisfied that nothing left over from Desio’s rule remained, he sat and gave no other sign beyond laying the bared steel blade of the Minwanabi ancestral sword across his knees.

There followed a pause, in which Incomo belatedly realized that he was expected to act without further sign from the master. Where Desio had insisted on control over even the tiniest action, Tasaio expected to be served. The Minwanabi First Adviser waved for the ceremony to commence.

A pair of priests approached the dais, one wearing the red paint and death mask of Turakamu and the other clad in the full-sleeved white robe of Juran the Just. Each intoned a blessing from the god they served. There followed no offerings, and no grand ceremony in the manner that Desio had orchestrated. The priest of Juran lit a candle, for constancy, and left it burning in a stand woven of the reeds that symbolized the frailties of mortal man before his god. The priest of the Death God did not dance or blow whistles. Neither did he ask his deity to show favour. Instead, he trod up the stairs of the dais and reminded in cold words that a promise of sacrifice remained unfulfilled.

‘A vow sworn upon the blood of House Minwanabi,’ the priest reminded. ‘The family of the Acoma must die in the name of Turakamu, with Minwanabi lives as surety. Who would accept the lord’s mantle must also complete this charge.’

Tasaio said thinly, ‘I acknowledge our debt to the Red God. My hand on this sword confirms it.’

The red priest traced a sigil in the air. ‘Turakamu smile upon your endeavour … or seal your death and that of your heirs should you fail.’ Bones clacked and rattled as the priest spun around and left the dais; while the draught of his passage guttered the candle of the Just God.

The new Lord of the Minwanabi sat silently, without expression, as first one and then another family member or retainer came forward to bow and pledge loyalty. When the last vassal had affirmed fealty, he arose and called to the Strike Leader posted by the side door, ‘Send in my concubines.’

Two young women entered, both wearing rich clothes. One was tall, slender, and fair-haired, her wide-set eyes jade green, and delicately enhanced with paint. The other, robed in gauze lace dyed scarlet, had a dark complexion and a rounded figure. Of different types, both women owned a beauty that stopped men’s eyes, and they advanced in tiny steps, in the fashion of those trained since childhood to give pleasure. Both bowed gracefully before the dais, slender legs shown to advantage by short robes, and loose-wrapped gowns revealing an ample glimpse of breast. Although such women were chosen from among the loveliest in the Empire, neither held status above the meanest servant. All who were gathered in the hall stilled in curiosity to see what their Lord wished with his courtesans.

Before Tasaio’s dais, both women fell to their knees, touching foreheads to the floor.

‘Look at me,’ commanded Tasaio.

Frightened, but in all things obedient, the two young women did as instructed. ‘Your will, my Lord,’ they intoned in voices of practised softness.

The new Lord of the Minwanabi regarded them with dispassionate eyes. ‘Incarna,’ he addressed the dark one. ‘Are your children close?’

Incarna nodded, dread draining the colour from her cheeks. She had borne her Lord two illegitimate children, but their father’s rise in status might not be to their benefit. It was not uncommon for a man come to the mantle of Ruling Lord to kill such offspring, preventing any claim upon the family.

‘Bring them,’ Tasaio commanded.

A shimmer that might have been tears brightened Incarna’s almond eyes. Yet she jumped to her feet and hurried out of the Minwanabi great hall. Tasaio’s regard shifted to the fair woman who remained on her knees before the dais. ‘Sanjana, you’ve told my First Adviser you are with child?’

Sanjana held her hands clasped, but the beadwork on her robe shimmered in the light as she trembled. ‘Yes, Lord,’ she replied, the huskiness in her voice no ploy to seem seductive.

Tasaio said nothing. His face and manner did not change even when Incarna reappeared, half dragging a small boy behind her. He had Tasaio’s auburn hair and his mother’s rosy complexion, and though he did not cry, his mother’s nervousness frightened him. Carried in the concubine’s arms was a second child, a girl not yet old enough to walk such a distance on her own. Too young to understand, she rode with her fingers in her mouth, her pale amber eyes on the gathering of people in the hall.